Walking With Dark Angels

by The Cat's Whiskers

In the future, Sentinels were tailormade for humanity's expansion into space, but Dark Sentinel Jim Ellison is doomed, unless he can find the semimythical only living Dark Guide. AU

4. Chapters 7 & 8

See Disclaimers, etc, in Chapters I-II

Chapter VII – The Bonding Of A Dark Guide

Promenade Shopping Rotunda…

Blair's brain did not kick start itself back into gear until they entered the Rotunda. His captor simply strode through the crowd holding him lightly off the floor like a lioness holding a cub in its mouth. In his ears, Blair suddenly heard the jeering laughter of Alex Barnes, images of the damage that the much faster and stronger male Dark Sentinel could inflict on him sending hot knives of sheer horror into the pit of his stomach. He dangled uselessly as gibbering panic tried to batter its way into his thinking process – he had no mini-disruptor on his palm this time, the Sentinel could break his wrist long before his fingers managed to grab the Vibro-knife –

The crowds ahead thickened, since one of the leading department stores was having a sale. The wide lower floor was packed with bargain hunters, people milling around outside as the Dark Sentinel started to edge through. With inspiration born of desperation, Blair took his chance.

With his one free arm he suddenly jabbed it towards the back of the store and bellowed, "FIIIRRRE!"

As one being, several hundred people sharply reversed direction from trying to get in to trying to get out. Surging backwards, they enmeshed the Dark Sentinel, buffeting him and Blair, and an instant later the younger man was literally knocked from Jim's grasp. His legs pumping before he even touched the floor, Blair went in low and shot off through the crowd like a coursed hare.

Jim detonated, white-hot fury flashing through every cell of his being, obliterating the perfume of bonding heat in it's fury. Filled with purely murderous intent, he took off after his prey.

Blair had no idea where he was running to, the important thing was that he was running away. He took a corridor where there were less people and speeded up, stabs of pain in his thighs, heart hammering against his chest, lungs burning as they sucked in air. Racing along a now empty passageway, a pair of double doors automatically slid back as he approached and he dived in like a gopher down its hole, stumbling to a halt, head down, winded and panting. Panic brought his head back up again sharply, but suddenly a wave of heat enveloped him and the area spun dizzily, causing him to slump weakly against a pillar.

The Dark Guide raised his head. He had had quite enough. He was sick of being chased, grabbed, buffeted, manhandled and generally having his life thrown into turmoil. There was a void inside of him, empty, aching, lonely, that would only be filled by merging with another mind. Hunger, overwhelming need, obliterated any other consideration.

The pillar was a tree trunk? The Dark Guide looked around him with interest and speculation. An arboretum, a huge one, built to give Halfway's residents access to the greenery and flowers that the human psyche had been proven to require as much as air. He smiled slowly, pleased; yes, this would be an ideal proving ground. Sharp ears, even though not Sentinel hyperactive, picked up approaching sounds. Quickly moving forward, he rolled like a dog in a nearby flowerbed, then moved towards a nearby tree.

Able to scent the Guide again after the initial explosion of fury, the Dark Sentinel hurtled through the doors and skidded to a halt as all his senses bar touch were assaulted. Quaint stone paths let off in a variety of directions through the trees, flowers and shrubs, the distant, far too rapid to be human heartbeats proclaiming the existence of birds and small mammals. A soft exhalation of breath drew his eyes upward. The Dark Guide was standing insouciantly balanced on the topmost branches of a nearby tree, beyond the Sentinel's reach. Rage surged anew at this mocking scorn and he snarled.

Their eyes locked, pale to dark blue. Tilting his head to one side in imitation of the Dark Sentinel's listening attitude, the Dark Guide examined him as if looking for something, then gracefully turned and scampered away through the foliage, as sure footed as if he was part monkey. About to give chase, the Dark Sentinel paused as he processed what had just happened. Yes, the Guide's gaze had been taunting, but not scornful. There had been hunger there too, to match the answering appetite in the Dark Sentinel. Not mockery, then, but…challenge?

The Dark Guide was not some weak thing to be chased down like a frightened rabbit; he demanded proof that he could be protected, nurtured, safely shielded by his Sentinel. The rage ebbed, replaced by something much sweeter: anticipation. His Dark Guide wanted to play.

Accessing James Ellison's eidetic memory supplied that the doors behind him were the only entry and egress. With casual disregard for anyone wanting to come in – his Sentinel senses had detected no human heartbeats other than his own and the Dark Guide's already present – he activated the Dark Angel override code on his wristcom that locked down the arboretum, secure that only he could open the place up again. He glanced up, considering the trees. They were tall, venerable statesmen planted as saplings by the initial crew of Halfway Space Station, but they were inaccessible to him. The topmost branches might hold the Dark Guide, but Jim's weight, pure corded muscle though it was, would not be borne. Nor, assuming he could spot the Dark Guide from the ground, was knocking him from his perch an option – the risk of injuring his Guide was simply too great. The Guide must be herded to where there were no more trees, forcing him to the ground. A large, much squashed flowerbed told him that the Guide had taken steps to disguise his scent, but that could be overcome.

Moving carefully, he set off, not in the Guide's direction, but on a parallel course, carefully extending his senses to the things around him, identifying scents, sounds and sights, then eliminating each one by one as he whittled it down, seeking one heartbeat, one scent, one figure….

Apartment 207, Gemini Block C, Halfway…

Saran entered the master bedroom of Trey's apartment after securely locking the front door behind him and bolting it, then marching his Guide through the hallway smartly, aware that his Sentinel instincts were pushing him to display his ownership of his Guide here, in Trey's inner sanctum.

"Strip!" He ordered curtly.

Head slightly lowered, Trey silently removed his jacket and shirt, pulled off his boots, slipped out of his pants and boxers, then turned and lay flat, face-up on the bed, making no attempt to cover his nudity, arms down by his side, head slightly turned to stare at the wall, still except for the faint twitch of his fingers against the bedspread.

Saran removed his shirt and boots, but went no further. Normally First Bonding occurred when both Sentinel and Guide were in full heat, but both he and Logan were only in the first stages; it could take a week or more as the process gradually developed, and Saran simply didn't have time to wait, he had too much to do. As he went and lay down on his side next to Logan, facing the empath and propping his head up on his hand, Saran acknowledged that the main advantage of Bonding Heat was that it removed all embarrassment and awkwardness about lack of clothing from the procedure, unlike now, when he felt definitely self-conscious even though the empath wasn't looking at him.

Reaching out his left hand, he placed it lightly and firmly against Trey's cheek, gently pressing his fingertips down over his ear, hair, neck and shoulder to the point where the scapula ended and the arm began; there he let his hand rest. Saran had no intention of physically mapping his Guide's entire body, not wanting to waste any more time on something that would be uncomfortable and embarrassing for both of them without being in full bonding heat.

He did, however, need to imprint the basic nature of his Guide on his senses. First, he let his fingertips measure the feel and warmth of Trey's skin, book marking the texture. Moving his hand to Trey's chest, he closed his eyes and dialled up his hearing, imprinting the beat of Trey's heart. Every human heart beat in it's own unique rhythm, just as each human had his or her own body scent, retina pattern and fingerprints. Finally, he dialled up his nose, breathing in the tangy spice of Trey's odour, parting his lips and letting it wash over his taste buds. He could now pick out "his" Guide in a crowd of thousands without having to look for him.

Gathering his mental energy, Saran concentrated, reaching out with that power as if it were fine tendrils of brilliant, scintillating silver-blue, to meet…nothing. Trey's mental shields were completely down, his mind obediently submissive. Silver-blue enveloped gentle lavender, making the psychic connection, opening up new neural pathways and the telepathic/empathic links with satisfaction as the Sentinel meshed with the Guide….but…..

Saran hesitated, vaguely aware that Trey was too compliant. It was not that Trey had accepted the bond, it was that he…..wasn't there? Reaching up with his hand, Saran turned Trey's face towards him. The young man's face was blank, his eyes neutral, but banked behind, Saran could see fear. No anticipation, no anger, not even resignation, just fear. Unconsciously he frowned and felt the tiny movement of the springs as Trey pressed himself back into the mattress, as if trying to increase the distance between them. Irritation surged, but with it, memory. When he was a child, he'd come across three of his cousins tormenting a tiny puppy. Harassed on every side, the puppy had simply curled up in a ball and lain very still, as if hoping it wouldn't be seen by the predators plaguing it. The puppy had been rescued and the cousins severely punished; now, however, Saran recognised the similarity between his long gone pet and the young detective. Logan was making himself as inconspicuous as possible, still as a rabbit hoping a fox would walk on by. Saran softened slightly despite his irritation over having a Guide forced on him by his own primitive genes, and heard Logan's heart rate increase in fear in response to his expression. Trey Logan had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time and could not be blamed.

Moving so he covered the other man, Saran cupped Trey's face, holding him so he couldn't look away. Carefully, ensuring he didn't cause any synaptic damage, Saran completed the mental bonding, slowly merging his own psyche fully with the young man, sending reassuring feelings to Logan as he did so. You are mine, I won't hurt you, its all right.

Trey's eyes widened as the words wound themselves into his cerebellum, but infinitesimally, he relaxed. Saran had made no attempt to bombard Trey with his own memories, or impose his will on him, so Trey carefully shoved his own traumas into a little room in his back brain and slammed the door, "encouraging" the Sentinel to pass over.

Saran glanced at his watch, deciding to remain as he was for another half hour, just to reinforce the bond, before getting them ready to sort out Halfway's administrative minions and then leave for Federation.

Arboretum, Halfway Space Station…

The Dark Guide clambered down the tree and strolled out onto the wide, grassy knoll situated at the far end of the "wood" that was against the wall of the dome, directly under a canopy of glittering stars that blurred slightly when viewed through the translucent dome roof. His intent to double back to the doors had been foiled by the Dark Sentinel, whose tangential movements through the arboretum had made it too dangerous to approach those sections of the trail where he would have had to come down to ground level before re-climbing the trees. However, there should be a small service hatch, discreetly tucked behind an artistically placed boulder or something nearby –

A soft sound came from behind him, and he turned almost lazily to face the Dark Sentinel. The larger man halted a short distance away, his slow smile uncomfortably reminiscent of shark, exuding a smug, pleased self-satisfaction at doing something extremely clever, like a dog sent chasing after a stick who'd come back with a gold bar in it's mouth. The Dark Guide arched an eyebrow and shifted lightly on his feet, waiting.

The Dark Sentinel noted the balancing and grinned anticipatorily. So, his prize still wanted to play. The Dark Guide's nose twitched as his senses picked up the Sentinel's bonding musk due to their proximity and hunger flared even brighter in his dark blue eyes, colouring them almost ebony. Consciously trying to increase the amount of musk he was producing, the Dark Sentinel nevertheless kept his attention focussed on the Guide as he feinted suddenly.

Not fooled by the movement, the Guide danced backwards, not left or right, either of which motions would have put him in grabbing range. Warily they measured each other, making aborted movements and little feints. The Dark Guide was certainly capable of defending himself when the need arose, the Dark Sentinel saw, but his shorter stature meant that for some defensive moves, he over-reached himself. As he dodged the Dark Sentinel again, Blair took up a defensive stance that left him precariously balanced. Instantly, the Sentinel lunged and as Blair tried to evade, he stumbled slightly. The minute break in rhythm was all the Dark Sentinel needed; changing direction on a dime, he brought the Guide down to the ground, twisting slightly so that he took the brunt of the impact, instantly rolling over and pinning his prey.

This close, Dark Guide musk swamped him; he didn't even hear the tearing of seams as he pulled at the snagging, rough, coarse things on himself and the other man that were obstructing his need to map his Guide. The full weight of his mind swelled forward, glowing scarlet, hungry, hungry

To hit the adamantine mental shields of the Dark Guide.

Shaking his head at the unexpected recoil of psychic energy, the Dark Sentinel growled, the previous rage beginning to rise again at this defiance. His right hand tightened painfully in the soft curling hair, beginning to force the head back to expose the throat, instinct urging him to simply take what he wanted – he needed, he had to have.

The Dark Guide's eyes were so deep sapphire as to be almost black as they met the icy anger of the Sentinel's pale silver-blue gaze. Despite his anger and the way his left hand had tightened warningly around the Guide's throat as he used his greater weight to immobilise him, the thumb of that hand unconsciously rubbed back and forth under the Dark Guide's jaw soothingly. Despite his resistance, the Dark Guide let out a sub-vocal whimper of pleasure at the sensation, which the Dark Sentinel heard. He looked down at his prize, again re-considering.

The Dark Guide would not be anyone's pet, or toy, or plaything. He would NOT be subjugated.

But, he could be PERSUADED to relaxed, soothed……

Retaining his holds in hair and around throat, but relaxing the grip of his left hand, the Dark Sentinel did not send another psychic surge, instead lowering his head, he placed his mouth against the Guide's neck, just under the right ear at the juncture of the lower jaw, then let out of a soft puff of hot breath that trembled the small silver earring, smiling against the flesh as a shudder of reaction went through the Guide. Yes, this was the way to do it, not aggression, but persuasion. Gently, the Dark Sentinel gave a slight tug on the earring with his teeth, then he moved to that spot just below the ear, nibbling the sensitive spot, rewarded by a clearly voiced mewl of need and delight.

He flicked out his tongue and tasted the essence of his Guide, nipping and nuzzling his way down the jaw to the base of his Dark Guide's throat, which arched back invitingly this time. The hands that had been braced against his shoulders tightened their grip to keep him there instead of push him away. Carefully he sent out another tendril of psychic energy, which touched and wrapped itself round a strand of gleaming gold. No barriers now, none. The Dark Guide's mental shields were completely gone, he was utterly vulnerable to the bombarding emotions of Halfway's millions of inhabitants unless protected by the mental shields of his Sentinel. The Dark Sentinel cocooned them both in the warm, brightly hued void of merging, as they sank into their need.

Scarlet caressed gold, seeping into it, drawing it to it, rejoicing in the union of minds, thoughts and emotions. Then the Dark Sentinel's mental power found scar tissue. Pausing instantly, he probed, psychically "touching" partially created neural pathways that had been forced into being, hypersensitive neurons that flinched like toothache from the empathic caress, damaged synaptic connections. Protective distress and possessive anger came to the fore. The Other had tried to do this, had tried to claim by force what had never belonged to it anyway. The Dark Guide had been hurt by the cruel, crude attempts to crush his mind and annihilate his will, destroy his sense of self. Making sounds of distress, the Dark Sentinel halted the merging and gathered his Guide to him, cuddling him as protective instincts activated and his Sentinel hyperactive sense of touch stroked over physical scars to match mental ones.

The Dark Guide wriggled in his embrace, hugging and whispering, reaching out with his own mind and drawing the Sentinel back into the bond, soothing the anxious resistance. The Other was of no account, inconsequential, nothing. He belonged only to his true Sentinel, his precious Dark Sentinel, who would guard him, defend and protect him, care for him tenderly. There was total trust in the Dark Guide as he opened his mind completely to the scarlet aura of his chosen Sentinel.

Moving carefully, the Dark Sentinel finished opening up the new pathways, creating new mental links as the brain chemistry of both men irrevocably altered to accept none but each other, life-bonded, their union only ending in death. Still wary of causing distress, the Dark Sentinel began to "map" his Guide's physical form, imprinting the Guide on his senses, so the Guide could be used as a baseline against which to measure all other sensory input. On his Dark Guide's shoulder there was red, tender skin that Jim Ellison's memories told the Dark Sentinel came from the discharge of energy weapon that had just skimmed the surface, doing no more damage than singing a few hairs and the outer skin layer, but still he snarled low in his throat until he remembered that the lesser Sentinel who had claimed the other Guide had eliminated that threat. Mollified, the Dark Sentinel continued exploring. He sniffed, nuzzled, stroked and explored, uttering a little growl every time his fingers touched some relic of hurt, such as the ear where the Other had burned something against it, the artificial back teeth that replaced those the Other had pulled out with pliers as punishment for some non-existent misdemeanour or just pleasure.

The Dark Guide hungered to be claimed; his eyes narrowed at the slow progression and, when the Sentinel finally reached his upper torso, he acted. As the Dark Sentinel traced the breastbone with his finger, the Dark Guide uttered a soft yelp. Instantly the Dark Sentinel reared back in anxiety, frightened that he caused hurt. Thus unbalanced, he was sent sliding off his prize by the Dark Guide's upward surge, momentarily confused and unprepared for the Dark Guide's lunge – not away, but at him. With a startled "oomph", he was pushed down by the impact of his Guide, now the shorter man doing the straddling.

"Claim me." The order was a barely intelligible guttural growl, backed up by him doing some biting and nipping of his own, suddenly developing an octopus-number of arms that roved and explored.

The Dark Sentinel used his greater strength to flip his Guide and pin him again. For an instant, he held the Guide immobile, mentally probing to ensure that the Guide had no fear of him hurting him, that he truly wanted this. Then, with matching grins, they began to play: tickling, batting each other, biting, scratching, rolling over and over on the moss, noogieing, squeezing and pinching, happy chortles of glee echoing in the dome. Eventually, the Dark Sentinel grabbed his wriggling, squirming, giggling Dark Guide and secured him by use of his own greater weight and reach.

Dialling up all his senses, the Dark Sentinel mapped his Guide millimetre by millimetre from the top of his scalp to his soles, revelling in the soft catch of breath and shivers of need that rippled through his Dark Guide, spending several minutes playing with the small silver ornament in his right nipple because that elicited gasps and yelps of delight, before moving on. The many small scars and healed broken bones caused by the abuse of the Other were given individual attention, each one stroked, patted, kissed, nuzzled. Using the flat palm of his hand, a Sentinel could "ghost" it across his or her Guide's body, their ultra sensitive senses detecting breaks, soft tissue injuries, even down to invading germs and other microbes. The Dark Guide had no appendix, ruptured by a kick that his now accessible – to his Sentinel - memories told was explained away as a fall. His kidneys were fully functional but had been bruised by beatings. The Dark Guide's back was criss-crossed by thin white lines and his lower arms by shallower versions of similar cuts – something deep inside told the Dark Sentinel they were important, and he tucked away their presence even as his Guide encouraged him to move on and ignore them.

Obediently the Dark Sentinel's exploration moved lower and for the first time the Dark Guide showed a flash of anxiety and distress. On his genitals were small, puckered burn scars, extending from the base along the length of the penis and on the two soft sacs underneath, intermingled with tiny horizontal lines from wounds inflicted by a small knife. Gently rubbing the base of his Guide's back as they lay on their sides facing each other, the Dark Sentinel's sensory scan detected internal scarring caused by healed fissures and tears in the rectum. Mentally and emotionally, the Dark Guide began to withdraw, and instantly the Dark Sentinel sent more psychic power along the synaptic nerves, holding the connections open and preventing the withdrawal, snuggling his embarrassed Guide close. The Other, not content with verbal abuse, mental cruelty and physical torture, had humiliated her slave; flashes of anguished memory crossed the link. Of being beaten semi-conscious and then tied, face down and naked, repeatedly raped with dildos and other objects, or by "big", cruel men sadistically delighted to do the Other's perverted bidding while she watched, laughing, and taunted the Dark Guide; shame because his body had sometimes responded automatically to the pressure on his prostrate, arousing him, evoking mocking laughter and more brutality. He had tried to fight, to appease, to run….

Somehow the Dark Guide was now being hugged, his misty eyes wiped with a big thumb, the nape of his neck being massaged reassuringly. He was a brave Guide, a clever Guide, a resourceful, ingenious Guide. After all, was it not he instead of the Other who still lived? Brutal the Other had been, but stupid, and she had paid for her stupidity. The Dark Guide was perfect, clever, cuddly, he belonged to the Dark Sentinel, and no one would hurt him, ever again!

"Claimed and marked, Guide." The Dark Sentinel rumbled the ancient ritual vow from deep in his belly as he settled down, tucking himself around his prize, caressing silky curls.

"Claimed and marked, Sentinel." The Dark Guide spoke the oath in return, snuggling close to his only Blessed Protector, his precious Dark Sentinel's comforting warmth….

Arboretum, the following "morning", Halfway Space Station…

Blair's eyes crossed as they looked down at the blade of grass that was aggravating one nostril. He twitched his face to one side but as soon as he relaxed his nose was right back in the way again. Conceding defeat, he sat up, then froze mid-stretch as he realised that he was au naturale. Right next to him, a much larger human form was snoring gently, also in his birthday suit, and very clearly masculine, as Mother Nature decreed the adult human male should demonstrate of a morning. Automatically Blair glanced up in alarm at the vast panorama displayed through the crystal clear Plexiglas of the dome, but all space traffic over the arboretum had been banned after the Unfortunate Incident when a passing sight-seeing shuttle of dignitaries – including the then British King-Emperor, Viceroy of At'Ehn IV, the IFP Vice-President, Ohnmar of the Valyrian Free Worlds, King of the Azca Unity and Maharani of the Asian Confederation – had passed close enough to the dome to get a bird's eye view of a booze-fuelled "stag night" that had gotten considerably out of hand and descended into an enthusiastic orgy, centre stage being the groom vigorously demonstrating on his "best man" his intended approach to the wedding night nuptials.

Blair's skin tingled and he was totally unsurprised to see on his own body the same marks and abrasions that adorned the slumbering frame next to him. Closing his eyes a moment, he centred himself, looking deep inside, again knowing with no surprise that he accepted the Bonding. He felt…secure, more than that, he felt necessary, he felt wanted. He –

Trey.

Scrabbling to his feet, Blair spotted his pants and yanked them on, fumbling with the zip and fastening, cursing human beings who in five hundred years hadn't found anything better than the zip and button. The Dark Sentinel awoke instantly as his Guide's heartbeat spiked and sat up alertly, but Blair's sole intent was fixed on Trey. The youth would be terrified, absolutely scared out of his mind with fear. The other Sentinel, he'd looked very familiar but Blair couldn't place him, had shown nothing but an aloof, chill manner. Trey was vulnerable, he needed to be protected, damn where was his shirt?

The item was hanging from a nearby bush, somewhat worse for wear, but Blair simply yanked it on and grabbed his jacket and backpack. Wait, wait…boots, where were his boots?

Satisfying himself that no external threat was causing his Guide's – (what a wonderful phrase, my Guide, all mine, mine, mine) escalated respiration, Jim indifferently slipped on his pants. Clearly hearing the agitated mumbles about footwear, he yawned and eyed his Guide (yippee!) greedily. Why rush when they had this nice, cosy dell all to themselves? Intending to strip his Guide (all mine) off again, he approached as Blair, having found his boots, hopped manically on one leg as he tried to put the first one on.

"What are you doing?" Jim asked, watching the exhibition with a smile, but ready to scoop him up should his antics cause him to overbalance.

"Doing?" Blair wailed, glaring at him. "I've got to find Trey! He'll be scared out his mind!"

Belatedly Jim recalled the other empath in the corridor. "He'll be okay," he dismissed.

Blair glared at him. "Okay! He's my friend! I should have been protecting him, not in here…in here…in here… cavorting… with you!"

Abruptly two big hands clamped on his arms and he was lifted a good three inches of the floor till he had a close up and personal view of the angry Ellison face. "We. Were. Bonding." Jim ground out. "You're mine, I claimed you and if I say so, you don't go anywhere!"

Aware that any second he was going to be stripped and pinned again, Blair frantically began damage control (Obfuscate, Sandburg!), "Hey, easy big guy!" He began to pat the broad shoulders soothingly. "I know, I didn't mean it. I'm yours, claimed and marked. You're my Sentinel, I belong to you." (That's it, big guy, put me back on the floor.)

Jim released his Guide, sure that his authority was clear. "Your friend will be fine. Saran is a good guy."

Blair stopped dead. "Saran? Saran Van den Mikhail? Oh my god!" Frantically he began to look around for his second boot, dropped when Neanderthal Man here decided to show he could lift nearly his own body weight in Sandburgs.

Jim scowled, offended by his Guide reacting to his friend's name as if Saran was a mad axe murderer, and sulkily wanting Blair's sole attention focussed on himself, not someone else.

Alert to the unwelcome re-emergence of the Dark Sentinel, Blair again took steps to placate. "Hey, big guy," (damn, what's your name, fella?) "I'm sure that LEO Commissioner Van den Mikhail is " (an emotionally crippled head-case) "a decent guy, but Trey's very " (traumatised) "shy, and I'm afraid that he'll be scared around some like Saran who is" (a granite-faced, stone-hearted emotional retard Ice King) "so….emotionally closed off."

Thankful that Sentinels were empaths who could feel emotions but not "telepaths" in the science-fiction sense (Guide and Sentinel could only speak telepathically to each other, no-one else), Blair realised that he'd managed to mollify the man as the Dark Sentinel stopped lurking in his eyes and settled down.

Jim made an executive decision. Inconvenient it might be, but he admired such loyalty to a friend, it would only increase the depth of his Guide's loyalty to him through their bond. They'd call in on Saran who should be at the precinct by this morning, and once assured that Trey was in once piece, Jim would take Blair back to Cascade and what promised to be a fun reunion with Simon Banks. "Okay." He conceded, running a hand through his much shorter crop of hair as he tried to figure out where he had tossed his boots last night. Once again his Guide's heart rate skyrocketed and he turned back anxiously to find Blair frozen in place, gawping at him like a scandalised goldfish. "Blair?"

"Ellison." It was a squeaky whisper.

"Yeah?" Jim was confused; there was no threat to either of them.

Blair started to hyperventilate as a Classic Blair Sandburg DefCon 5 Deluxe Panic Attack stepped out from the wings to centre-stage, as Blair finally really looked at his Sentinel and his eyes registered the tattoo. "James Joseph Ellison. You're the Patriarch's Body Heir. High House Ellison!"

"You mean last night when you were treating my neck like your own little smorgasbord you never noticed this big, brightly coloured tattoo all the way around it?" Jim grinned.

"I was in bonding heat!" Blair began to bounce, waving his arms in agitation, "I wouldn't have noticed if you'd turned emerald green and sprouted antlers." He began to pace as the panic attack got into its stride. "I don't believe this. You're Jim Ellison, the Jim Ellison. I can't be your Guide –"

That got the Dark Sentinel's undivided attention. "You're mine!" The Guide was grabbed and pulled close. The Dark Sentinel would not tolerate resistance to that truth.

Blair managed to get his face out of Jim's shirt and look up at his Sentinel. "Jim, Alex Barnes was the only other living Dark Sentinel besides you in the past three hundred years." His mouth twisted in embarrassment and distaste. "The tabloids are still full of salacious, graphic stories about what exactly she did to her Dark Guide slave. A lot of people know what happened to me when I was with her, especially in the Oligarchy and IFP, powerful, influential people. Your dad isn't going to want his son bonded to the Guide-whore who bashed in his previous Sentinel's skull, one who's damaged goods –"

Jim snarled, "What my father wants is a matter of total indifference to me and has been for fifteen years! You are my bonded Guide! Nothing and no one is going to separate us, and if anyone so much as looks at you sideways, I'll break their neck. Clear?"

"Yes, Jim." Blair switched to submissive mode, aware that unless he calmed Ellison down, he would be kept here, summarily stripped and bonded with again. He needed to get to Trey.

"Right, Saran and your friend will be at the precinct. We'll go there – after we've been to the body artist."

Blair nodded despite his impatience, recognising the non-negotiable tone. Ellison had no temporary collar, and the Dark Sentinel wanted his Guide branded as his now. Collecting their accoutrements, Jim unlocked the arboretum and they strolled out together, blithely cleaving a path through the small group who had been trying to get in and ignoring the murmurs in their wake.

The body artist's eyes widened as he took in the Body Heir tattoo of the very large, broad shouldered man who entered, comprehension dawning as he took in the smaller man plastered to his side. Lord Heir Ellison sketched the design he wanted, and the two colours – scarlet and gold – before settling his Guide into the chair. Body art was now totally painless, but the artist still took exquisite care as he began to work the design, starting at the base of the throat. Lord Heir Ellison was known to be a powerful Sentinel, and his senses would be very active with his Guide in such a vulnerable position, his throat exposed, an action that usually only occurred during bonding. The Sentinel also tended to be irrationally jealous that his or her Guide had bared their throat to someone else, even when that person was not a Sentinel and therefore no rival.

To his relief, however, this time the Guide showed some initiative. Some Guides had a dislike of needles, triggering off the Sentinel's Blessed Protector instinct. Others, especially captured wild empaths, appeared to wish they were anywhere else but where they were, triggering extreme possessiveness on the part of the Sentinel. Reaching out one hand, this Guide placed it in Lord Heir Ellison's much larger one; instead of sitting like a stuffed dummy, he kept his attention on his Sentinel, looking at him with a puppy-like tender adoration that, to the body artist's scrupulously hidden amusement, the big man openly basked in, puffing out his chest and preening. Catching the body artist's eye, one eyelid seemed lower slightly in what might have been a wink.

Finally the process was over and the artist's heart did a somersault of glee when Lord Heir Ellison dished out a tip that would cover the ground rent for this place for the next two years. Then the Guide paused. "Wait, what are those?"

Eagerly, the artist showed them the small, but exquisitely carved gold ornamental charms and rings he also sold. The Guide reached out and took an earring and a matching nipple ring both of which were carved in the shape of a wolf's head. Lord Heir Ellison promptly handed over enough galaks to pay the ground rent for another six months. Then his larger hands reached out and stilled the Guide's as the curly haired man made to remove his earring. Gently, the big man inserted the new earring, then, deliberately blocking the artist's view, he opened the Guide's shirt, removed the old ring and inserted the new gold one, giving it a playful tug and grinning when Blair blushed rosily. The anthropologist had been loudly vocal during bonding, never more so than when Jim had teased him by messing with the nipple ring. (Hours of fun for the Sentinel) Jim promised himself.

As they made their way to the Central Precinct, Blair ensured that he matched his stride to Jim's and kept himself as close to the Dark Sentinel as possible. The Sentinel was very jealous and possessive – well, more so than usual – in the first ten to fourteen days after First Bonding. Under normal circumstances during that fortnight, the newly bonded Sentinel and Guide would be sent somewhere picturesque, serenely quiet and uninhabited with appropriate shielding and white noise generators, so they could settle into the psychic link undisturbed. Sometimes, however, that simply was not possible to do, which tended to make the Sentinel's temper very uncertain. In this instance, Blair had no worries. The vast majority of the denizens of Halfway hadn't survived this long without being fairly bright. Passers by took one look at the tattoo identifying the big man as Firstborn & Body Heir Dark Sentinel Lord James Ellison, and one at the obviously fresh tattoo of a Bonded Dark Guide around the neck of the young man walking next to him, and prudently melted from the Sentinel's path like morning mist.

"Blair!"

Jim whirled at the sharp, tense cry, instantly ready to defend his Guide, but paused in surprise as Race Keegan and his Guide Gage Butler came towards them. A look of relief came over Blair's face and he moved forward and hugged Butler before releasing him and stepping back towards Jim, who bristled as Gage looked at him as if Jim had just admitted to being the local serial killer.

"Are you okay, B.?" Gage asked, trying to deny the tattoo his eyes insisted on seeing round Blair's throat.

"Yeah, G., I'm cool. This, uh, is Jim." Blair mumbled, desperately not wanting to admit to Gage that he, Blair, had deserted the man's best friend last night and that said best friend was now probably bonded to Saran Van den Mikhail, a man with all the emotional warmth of a polar ice cap.

"Dark Sentinel."

Jim bristled as Butler made the two words sound like some shameful venereal disease, Race shooting him an apologetic look.

"He's not like Alex Barnes." Blair's blunt stating of that name brought all their attentions to him. Glowering at Gage, Blair said firmly, "Jim is…everything."

Gage relaxed. Even as he'd resented his unwilling bonding to Race, a part of him had gone mushy and tender whenever he thought of his Sentinel, a reaction Blair had just exhibited in front of him, one that he had NEVER shown regarding anything to do with Alexandra Barnes. Gage moved on to his most pressing concern, "Is Trey all right?"

Blair blanched and his heartbeat spiked. Jim realised that the young man was going to blame himself for abandoning Trey and quickly nipped the martyrdom in the bud. "A killer called Grokk caught them in the corridor –"

Race surged forward as Gage went white and his vital signs shot up.

"- but we got there in time." Jim finished. "Saran saved Trey from Grokk and took Trey."

Gage's expression changed midway from alarm to relief back to alarm again. "Saran? Saran Van den Mikhail? Bondless Sentinel Saran Van den Mikhail!"

This time both Jim and Race glared as Gage managed to make their friend sound like Adolf Hitler, Pol Pot and Josef Stalin rolled into one super-monster. "Saran's a little frosty, but he's okay!" Race protested, only for his Guide to look at him as if he'd just suggested that cannibalism was okay as long as you only ate the limbs and not the torso.

"Let's go to the precinct, Saran will be there." Jim assured the two empaths, who nodded eagerly, looks of worry still obvious on their faces.

Saran stood in the in the centre of the Homicide Division bullpen, sorting through files as he finished "shutting down" his temporary desk, ignoring the bleating sheep around him. Saran's icy politeness to the terrified Chief of Police, Station Manager and Station Governors had, far more than bellowing, displayed his displeasure of the gross under-funding of certain police departments, like Juvenile Crime and Child Protection, for no better reason than they didn't want to admit paedophilia existed on Halfway for fear of damaging the tourist trade. He had also pointed out in chill, precise detail how such under-funding endangered the lives of the police officers involved; the point that Saran Van den Mikhail's brand new Guide had been one of those endangered was not lost on anyone present. More than one flunkie was saying a grateful prayer that, by some miracle, Trey Logan had remained whole and not been one of those who had lost an eye, hand, or suffered other damage due to being denied money. Then Saran had made polite conversation about politics, which nevertheless managed to convey his "disquiet" over the way that the Station Manager and his governor-council routinely interfered with arrests and court cases to favour wealthy and/or influential traders or tourists of a certain class or rank. Now they stood nearby, fawning and surreptitiously gibbering in panic as they realised their cushy number was about to be yanked away from them.

As he dropped another file onto the shredding pile – a thousand years of organised police forces, electronic books, tight-beams, intergalactic data-compressed emailing and STILL there seemed to be never ending mountains of paper, or nowadays, plastic flimsies, wherever you turned – Saran was always aware of exactly where his Guide was as Trey Logan sorted out his own caseload with his ex-colleagues. Most of the cops were staying well clear of Logan, but several had come up to check if he was okay. Saran was slightly disconcerted to realise that all of those were the "real" cops, not the time-servers, flunkies, pen-pushers and so forth.

Homicide Lieutenant Ryan, who did not know he was about to be the next Chief of Police, had whispered, "Sorry, kid," to Logan; Saran instinctively frowned at this attitude everyone seemed to have that Trey Logan had suffered A Fate Worse Than Death – what on Earth did these people think that the LEO Commissioner was going to do Logan? Part of his irritation, he knew, came from the pills. After his initial imprinting of Logan in the latter's apartment, Saran had gone back on the meds to ensure that he did not progress further than the initial stages of bonding heat and ordered Trey to do the same. He did not want to go into Full Bonding until they had been back on Federation at least a week and he'd had time to clear some of his backlog of work – he was well aware of the irascibility and irrationality of a newly bonded pair and the fact that they really needed to remain in seclusion for 7-14 days after First Bonding, during which time he would build yet another backlog of urgent work to clear.

Nevertheless, Saran acknowledged, despite his own dislike of being bonded, Logan was no wilting flower to crumple under the slightest pressure. In fact, the young detective was so far being the perfect Guide: silent, obedient, discreet, respectful; Saran had only to raise an eyebrow or furrow his brow and the young man seemed to know instinctively that he was required, appearing at Saran's elbow and waiting with quiet respect for Saran's order. Saran ruthlessly squashed the voice in his head that kept asking why the fact that Trey was a perfect Guide kept irritating him so much, or rather unsettling the Great Saran Van den Mikhail.

Abruptly his Sentinel Radar went on alert and he raised his head. Before he could take a step, two powerful empaths, one of them Race Keegan's Guide, Gage Butler and the other the brown-haired youth who'd been with Trey when he and Jim found Grokk menacing them, came into the room and launched themselves at Trey who enthusiastically returned their embraces. Race Keegan and Jim Ellison appeared in the doorway a second later. Saran's eyes narrowed as he took in Jim Ellison, suddenly realising who the unknown, curly haired empath was. The Dark Guide. Well, well, well. He went over, in time to hear the two Guides anxiously asking if Trey was okay.

"Blair Sandburg is my Guide." Jim Ellison told him with unmistakeable delight.

Saran turned his gaze to Blair, only to be taken aback by the youth's glare. In fact, both of them were looking as if he'd just confessed to being the local serial killer; protectiveness towards Trey and dislike of him poured of the duo in waves, and Saran felt his possessive instinct kick in.

Trey smiled softly, inching closer to Saran. "I'm okay, guys, thanks for coming to see me."

Blair smiled, to match Trey's calming tone, though his expression was strained. "Did you get Grokk?"

"Yes, he's – not a problem anymore." Trey amended.

Gage and Blair reluctantly took their leave of their friend, since Gage and Race were returning to Hyperion and Jim and Blair to Earth and Cascade. "We'll talk to you soon, Trey." Blair's words were a promise to Trey and his glare a warning to Saran before they left.

Saran told Trey to go back to clearing up his work as he returned to his desk when the two other Sentinels and Guides had gone, feeling distinctly piqued. The way the two empaths had reacted to him grated on his self-perception, but what really niggled was the way Trey had been so transparently grateful that they had come to see if he was all right, the way his eyes had kept flicking towards Saran warily, as if he seriously thought Saran was going to yell or hit him for hugging them back and talking to them. Aware he was frowning again, Saran consciously relaxed his facial muscles. Yes, he wanted an obedient Guide who knew not to bother him too much, but he didn't want a doormat, or someone who cowered like a kicked puppy every time he went near them. Once back on Federation, he would have a serious talk with Logan.

To Jim's surprise, he and Blair got through the precinct building with no bother, nobody paying any attention to them as Jim's gold detective "shield" was prominently displayed. Eschewing the elevator, they walked into Major Crime, their passage towards Simon's office marked by a sudden spreading pool of absolute, deathly silence. It wasn't just the absence of noise, Jim realised, the silence was so intense that it actually hurt his ears. Simon Banks yanked open his office door, his face a mask of hatred that made Jim stiffen in battle-readiness at the sheer murderous intent in those eyes.

Blair stepped in. "Uh-uh, boys. Blood is hell on carpets. Let's go into your office, Simon." Ushering his Sentinel and his enraged friend inside, Blair turned and firmly shut the door in the faces of his other friends, who had gathered in a circle outside like a wolf-pack, ready to savage Ellison at Simon, or Blair's, command.

Simon was breathing harshly, literally incapable of speech due to his rage and outrage that Ellison had dared show his face within ten miles of Cascade ever again. Blair, however, was having none of it. "That's enough, Simon. Stop feeling guilty because you couldn't protect me."

Simon's lips tightened as the barb went home. "Dark Sentinel –"

Blair slapped his hand down on Simon's desk, making both of them flinch. "James Ellison is so far removed from Alexandra Barnes that they are not even in the same galaxy." He glared at Simon, silently reinforcing his point. "I vowed that I would never submit again to anyone who tried to do what Alex did, Simon, and I am more than capable of fulfilling that – if Jim had even thought about it, I would have disembowelled him on the spot. Alex was nothing; James Ellison is my Sentinel – he belongs to me as much as I belong to him."

For an instant the battle of wills raged, but finally Simon sighed – few, if any, could stand against the will of a Dark Guide. It was what made them so dangerous. "So now that you have your Dark Guide, Ellison, why have you come back?" He snarled.

"To be a detective in the Major Crime Unit."

The fresh cigar that Banks had placed in his mouth fell unheeded on his desk top as his teeth bit reflexively through it. "What?" He whispered.

Jim repeated his statement. As Simon seemed to swell up, Jim slipped his hand in his pocket and tossed a small badge onto the Captain's desk, whose explosion of vituperation was halted dead as he focussed on it – two black angel's wings under a crooked halo and over a crossed gun and laurel leaf. "I'm a Dark Angel." Jim said casually. "Information that will never leave this room, if you want to live. I realised during my search for Blair that being a Homicide Detective in the Cascade PD is the ideal "public life". I also found that I like being a detective. I feel – good- knowing I've helped people stay safe."

"It's for real, Simon." Blair assured his friend, earnestly.

"Aaaggh!" Moaned Simon.

Needless to say, Major Crime accepted – or rather didn't – the new situation spectacularly badly. As he and Blair walked the gamut of glaring faces, deciding to go to Jim's apartment and let Simon "handle" the Major Crime personnel, Jim seriously considered coming into work wearing his Spider Silk protective gear. Upon arriving at apartment 307, 852 Prospect Avenue, Jim scandalised Blair by ruthlessly displacing his cousin Rainworth Ellison. Rainworth was the younger brother of snotty Stanley, son of William's brother George and his super-snob wife Alysoun. However, since the property had actually been passed to Jim by his maternal grandmother, Matriarch Kristijana Akureyri and did not belong to High House Ellison at all, there was very little argument to be made. However, Rainworth was as friendly and down to earth as his brother and mother were sneering and supercilious, and moved himself out with rapidity and equanimity, heading, Jim realised sourly as the young man waved cheerily at them through the back window of the taxi-skiff, straight to the planet of Federation and the keen ear of William Ellison, to tell any family member who'd listen that Jimmy finally had his Dark Guide.

Week One was a lesson in stress. The only thing that kept Jim on an even keel was that Blair allowed him to bond with the young anthropologist nightly, as all Jim's insecurities and fears were activated by the hostility sloshing around them. However, day by day the silent tension lessoned as Major Crime began to see that Jim's protectiveness and fussing over Blair was a genuine thing, not some attempt to impress/appease them. Joel Taggart, who was Captain of the Bomb Squad but who had his desk in the bullpen with the rank and file rather than his own private office, was a huge, black bear of a man under whose massive chest beat a heart of pure, clarified gold, and he earned Jim's undying gratitude for first extending the hand of friendship once he was satisfied that Jim was no threat to Blair. Others followed suit.

Their ire dwindled even further when Jim accompanied Blair back to Rainier University, and basically menaced the faculty and students into accepting Blair's return. Both at the precinct and university, those full of spiteful slander, wicked words and catty comments about the Dark Guide's sexual history and murder of the female Dark Sentinel found that their "witticisms" withered unsaid on their lips when they came face to face with the pitiless laser glare of the Dark Sentinel, son of High House Ellison.

Simon Banks found that his self-appointed task to ensure the whole of the ancient city of Cascade was inhabitable by decent people had suddenly become a lot easier. Ellison and Sandburg patrolled the streets as literal Dark Avengers, the bad, dangerous to know and even the mad beginning to seek new, less well-guarded pastures.

"WHERE IS HE!" Opening the door at the furious pounding on it, Jim took a step back as his half-brother lunged into the apartment, the Internal Affairs Captain the personification of Homicidal Maniac. For an instant, Jim stood in bemusement as Hunter ranted and raved, then Dark Sentinel instincts cut in – a Bondless Sentinel was strutting around in his territory threatening bodily harm, albeit implausibly, to the Dark Guide. He snarled low in his throat.

"Jim?" The single word brought both Sentinels' attention to Blair as he strolled out of the bedroom he had below Jim's, closing the French windows that were his doors behind him. As usual due to the fact that he felt the cold, Blair was dressed in faded jeans and several layers of brightly coloured shirts, looking like a 20th Century flower-child. Somehow, he exuded an authority that had the Dark Sentinel quietening. "Hunter?"

Hunter was a Sentinel, and that part of him revered the Dark Guide, but he was also Ellison Vincent Hunter, and that part of him was furious. He waved the offending plastic flimsy at Blair. "What the hell is this acceptance to William Ellison's birthday party: "Thank-you for your prompt RSVP, one of Patriarch Ellison's personal staff skiffs has been assigned to collect Messrs James Joseph Ellison, Ellison Vincent Hunter and Blair Jacob Sandburg from Federation's Nagaraki Spaceport on the 29th!"

"What!" Now Jim was glaring at his Guide as he plucked the offending sheet from his half-brother's hand and read it. "What did you do, Sandburg?"

Blair looked from one to the other in confusion. "I made us reservations to go to your dad's birthday party. Some guy named Wilson Parker –"

"My dad's Advocate." Jim growled to Hunter; as Personal Assistant, Private Secretary, Major-Domo, second-in-command, household manager and steward, all rolled into one, the Advocate of a High House was second only in power to the Patriarch or Matriarch him or herself, and held power and rank equal to that of the Body Heir or Heiress.

"Yeah, anyway, he came through to your desk, Jim, on your out-of-galaxy private comm. I mean, those things cost a fortune to talk on for two seconds!" Blair said in awe. "He reeled off this invite to the both of you, I said yes, he asked who I was, I told him, he made the travel arrangements in about ten seconds." Again, Blair looked awed at someone with that sort of clout, since to make spur of the moment travel arrangements on inter-galactic liners was something that required about a large planet's worth of gold.

"I'm not going anywhere near that man!" Hunter snapped angrily.

"What's wrong with your dad's birthday party?" Blair looked confused.

"Stop calling him my dad!" Hunter's ire began to rise again.

Blair looked from one irate face to the other, and slowly a look of hurt spread across his face. "I thought you'd like going to your dad's birthday party." He swallowed and whispered, "I've never had a dad."

There was a long silence. The slender, woebegone, big-eyed figure gazed at them with the baffled hurt look of a puppy that had been kicked for no reason. Finally Blair looked at the floor and flushed with embarrassment, giving both men a plastic, brave smile. "Sorry guys. I didn't realise, I mean, all your family will be there and me being the Dark Guide and…what with the media telling everyone what Alex did to me…I'll cancel, first thing tomorrow, I promise –"

The flimsy fluttered to the floor as Jim surged forward and gave his Guide a firm shake. "That's enough, Sandburg! Get it through your head that I don't care about what Alex did or did not do! You are my Guide now and anyone that sneers at you is going to end up a smear on the wall! I'm proud of you Chief, and if spending the night stuffed in a tux at William Ellison's interminable "birthday bash" is what it takes to prove it, then that is what we are going to do. Right, Hunter?"

That last was said in a nearly sotto voce growl. Hunter, recognising the snarl of a Dark Sentinel heading towards Blessed Protector aggression, knew he was facing Hobson's choice, and promptly agreed, rewarded by Blair's brilliant, grateful smile. The Dark Sentinel rumbled as that happy adoration was, however temporarily, focussed on someone other than him, a Bondless Sentinel to boot. Not slow on the uptake, Hunter exited gracefully and headed down the stairs, finding himself both apprehensive and anticipatory as he imagined the reactions at the High House of Ellison when William's bastard firstborn son strolled into the proceedings.

Jim Ellison growled and tightened his grip on his Guide; one big hand pushed up the layers of shirts and tugged sharply at the gold wolf's head nipple ring that was the fastest way to get his Guide's undivided attention. Blair rubbed his face against the big man's throat, knowing he was about to be thoroughly claimed. Jim was nervous and apprehensive about attending his estranged father's gathering, therefore Jim was primal and in full "Me Dark Sentinel, me in charge" mode.

True to Jim's imaginings, the gold ring had provided much pleasure to the Sentinel. Even if he were so inclined, Blair couldn't concentrate on Jim's manipulation of the nipple ring and keep his mental barriers up, which allowed the psychic link between them to surge and arc brilliantly for as long as the Dark Sentinel wished. Soon his Guide was stripped and pinned; the Dark Sentinel claimed him millimetre by millimetre, branding him completely; the powerful psychic energy cascaded around them in a riot of brightly hued sparkles, Jim roaring triumphantly as Blair screamed his name from the backlash of pure psychic power: " JIIIIIIIIIIMMMMMM!"

They lay, gasping with the aftershocks, when the roaring in Jim's ears finally subsided enough for him to realise that his very private comlink, the Dark Angels direct line, was pinging softly. Reluctantly uncoiling himself from his dazed Dark Guide, Jim stood up and somewhat shakily answered, keeping it to audio only; his superior did not need to see James Joseph Ellison in the altogether, at least not without a therapist on hand.

Blair sat up, equally shaky. He had known Bonding between Dark Guide and Dark Sentinel was wildly intense in the same way that someone who had never been off-planet knew that there were other inhabited worlds. But, just like a first time traveller off-world, the reality had been mind-blowing; now Blair shook his head as he recalled the pathetic imitation Alex had tried to force upon him. His whole brain was still tingling!

"Hit the shower, Chief." Jim's face was grim.

"What is it?" Blair asked, concerned.

"We've got to go back to Halfway. A Dark Angel has heard that there's someone there trying to lay a hit on me and Saran."

Blair jumped up. "That's crazy!"

The idea was ludicrous. To kill a Body Heir or the LEO Commissioner was tantamount to suicide because the perpetrator would be hunted down relentlessly and mercilessly killed on sight, regardless of cost or time involved. Such ruthless revenge, repeated for as long as necessary, was how the Oligarchy Nine Ruling Houses had made their elected officials essentially untouchable, successfully determined to avoid the political weakness and social chaos of past centuries, when criminals, terrorists and powerful business interests had used assassination, murder and the threat thereof to manipulate and emasculate the systems that were supposed to protect decent people from their depredations.

"I have no doubt." Jim agreed.

Chapter VIII – A Little Knowledge Is a Dangerous Thing

Planet Hyperion, Rion City Spaceport…

Oligarchy Senator Everard Henson swallowed heavily with weary relief as the ship made its ascent from Rion's spaceport. This whole trip had been a disaster. He shuddered as he thought of the damage control he was going to have to do to keep his own career from going down the toilet or stalling and cast an evil eye on his companions, some of whom, unaware of the deep kimchee they were in, were starting fluff up their feathers and bluster again, vain peacocks too foolish to understand that their pricked pride was the very least of their worries.

For those right-wing groups of the "inferior aliens who died out" mind-set as opposed to the "superior aliens who were advanced enough to leave the galaxy altogether" ideology, the archaeological dig on Hyperion was a major thorn in their side. Dr Gage Butler was too famous, and well-respected, to deride easily, especially as he had so spectacularly proven more "eminent" colleagues wrong about Hyperion being an alien world in the first place. Added to that, Butler's ability to make the least shard of clay pot sound fascinating to the layman meant that his findings tended to be more readily reported in the mass tabloid/sensationalist media as well as the more restrained, dignified "broadsheets". The discovery of more alien installations, large but not cities, on Hyperion, had led to large headlines in every form of media in the Inhabited Galaxies along with the prominently leaked news that Dr Butler was of the opinion that Hyperion was the "central world" of government of the alien culture in the same way that Federation was the centre of government of human culture.

Humanists, Humanity First, The Anti-Psi True Human Foundation, Citizens Morality League, and many other right-wing organisations had protested these conclusions with little effect as there was no way to control the digs or censure Butler, or so they thought. Then the "tabloid" media had hysterically reported the great breakthrough, that the "aliens were telepathic". Dr Butler had taken so-called humans, those mutants with "psi" abilities, into the alien temple. Crystal-based alien technology incorporated in the walls had re-activated and responded to them, and they had been able to even grasp parts of the hitherto indecipherable pictographs – enough to reveal that the symbols were not a language or written words, but were rather depicting concepts and ideas. Vague, amorphous shapes had also coalesced around the psychics, sending them into ecstatic states, as they claimed that the aliens had somehow managed to leave part of their "racial – or species - consciousness" behind, to make contact with any that were advanced enough to find their relics.

At the end of one particularly lurid tabloid report, the writer included the fact that Dr Butler had gotten the idea of the aliens' possible telepathy after the amorphous "alien consciousness" representatives had appeared when his Sentinel bonded with him on the "altar" in the main temple room.

That appeared to be the wedge, and certain parties seized on it. Empaths were widely regarded as emotionally unstable and neurotically inclined. Portraying Butler as Bonded Guide and therefore second-class citizen as opposed to professor Dr Butler meant the inconvenient archaeologist could be shunted aside and someone more appropriate put in his place.

There would be no half-measures with the plan, either. The Government of humanity was divided into two – Parliament and the Senate. The Oligarchy Mandarins began with Minor Grade Mandarin, then Junior Grade, Senior Grade and Primary Grade (equal in rank to an Oligarchy Associate House), the next level of rank being Senator (equal to Chief Justices) and then Oligarchy Speaker, a heady height of power that was equal in rank to planetary Monarchs, Ambassadors, Governors, Oligarchy Lesser Houses and Royalty Minors. Above that were solar system or galaxy rulers, Royalty Major and the Oligarchy's ruling Nine High Houses. Equal to the Nine were the Vice-President, the LEO Commissioner and the IFP Lord or Dame Supreme Chief Justice. Finally, the President of the IFP sat in spot lighted splendour, above and beyond.

Everyone up to and including Primary Grade Mandarins and Margrave/Margravine of Associate Houses (only Lesser and High House heads were allowed the title of Patriarch or Matriarch) resided in the lower Parliament, along with such lesser beings as space station managers, and governor-councils, mayors, commissioners, councillors, ministers, unions, trader representatives and so forth. In the Senate were the lowest rank, the Senators, up to the President him or herself, who resided in the glorious Star Chamber, an office, unlike the Presidential Palace, never seen and mysterious.

The right-wing coalition had eschewed Parliament and gone for Senators, Speakers, Chief Justices, members of Associate, Lesser and High Houses. Able to drop enough impressive names to bully Butler into knowing his place and ceding his current one, the delegation, headed by a younger son of an Associate House and with Everard as spokesman, had set off for Hyperion in high style.

But, reflected Everard bitterly, as the desert world dwindled to nothing through the viewport, their fondly imagined scenarios had been shattered from the instant they arrived. Nobody on the dig down to the least college student seemed to have the proper fear of their ability to damage careers and cut off grants. Everard winced as he realised the catalogue of errors that had led to this humiliation. Blinded by their own hubris, the coalition had not bothered to even discover the identity of the Sentinel who had claimed Gage Butler, imagining it to be some beefy but not too bright jock type who could be snowed by big words and big money into scuppering his Guide's career - Sentinels tended to be easily provoked to jealousy where they thought that someone or something else was threatening to replace them in their Guide's affection. Everard had airily been instructed to manipulate the goon into seeing Gage's archaeological career as a threat to the bond.

Gage Butler had watched their mincing approach with overt derision. Again, the phrase "desert world" hadn't really been taken in, Everard acknowledged, and the delegation found themselves having to skip in ungainly hops across hot, rock-strewn sand with their feet clad in the elegant, delicate, cutting-edge-of-fashion thin silk slippers that were utterly useless away from the priceless, antique tiled or wooden parquetry or plush carpeted floors of the corridors of power.

Everard's intended speech mixing carrot and stick would never be said as Butler's Sentinel loomed into view, proving to be none other than the extraordinarily wealthy playboy, Race Rainworth Keegan. Scion of Lesser House Keegan, true, but the favourite nephew of Matriarch Kristijana Akureyri of High House Akureyri.

Keegan had reacted with softly spoken but chilling menace when those of Everard's companions too stupid to realise the danger began to bluster, making insinuations about Butler's mental stability because of his empathy and coming perilously close to slander with carefully worded aspersions on his reputation and ability as an archaeologist. Everard had seen the fury in Butler's eyes and could almost see Keegan coiling tighter and tighter with deadly intent, like a teased Black Mamba about to strike as he fed off his Guide's fury. The cold but non-violent way they had been dismissed from the main dig site had not reassured Everard at all, even as the other delegates swaggered and swelled like cockerels. His astute mind was already connecting the dots.

True to his fears, the very next morning the delegation was hastily recalled to Federation by the suddenly ex-coalition chiefs, each of whom were sweating and seeking to divert attention from their "interest group" onto the others. Race Keegan was a close friend of his cousin, James Ellison, the estranged but still Firstborn & Body Heir of Patriarch William Ellison, and a grandson of Matriarch Kristijana Akureyri. Ellison in turn was on first name terms with the newly bonded LEO Commissioner Sentinel Saran Van den Mikhail, for whom he had somehow, according to gossip, procured the Commissioner's Guide, Trey Logan. Mikhail was the favourite son of the Vicereine of Olban, nephew and, incredibly, Body Heir of the Matriarch Madhuri of High House Syal, over her own offspring, a position not seen in a High House for four hundred and twenty years, since Patriarch Sachaverel Stantley made his sister Hypatia Body Heir over his three children. Keegan had made irate comm calls and now powerful eyes were focussed disapprovingly on the right-wing groups. Everard took a deep breath and decided to keep a low profile. Many of his companions were too full of arrogance to realise what they were up against and would trot like fattened pigs into the jaws of Keegan's friends. Everard was a pragmatist, and had no intention of trying to fight two Matriarchs, a Patriarch and Vicereine. That way lay oblivion.

Race cut off his very private, very secure comlink and winced as he stood up and began to walk slowly to his and Gage's luxurious tent. Normally on a permanent dig, solid cabins would have been erected, but the discovery of more installations made such construction unwise, since, as Gage pointed out, they might find that they had built right over the top of yet more structures. Even from here, on the other side of the camp, Race could feel Gage's lingering rage, like a salty aftertaste in his mouth, well aware that he was indirectly responsible for that sorry-assed delegation of racist bullies who were now wending their way off world. It was just that he had been so proud of Gage's discoveries, it didn't seem important not to tell the journalists how Gage had made the telepathy connection in the first place. As he dragged his feet towards his Guide's location like an errant child heading home to a dinner of cabbage, Race recalled the momentous events….

A week after they left Halfway and were back on Hyperion, Race still found himself slightly on edge, until he realised he was reflecting Gage's tension. When they had bonded aboard the liner en route back to the desert world, Race had felt how close friends Gage was with Trey Logan, and his deeply held fears regarding the ex-cop's bond with Saran, who was Race's friend. Whenever Race broached the subject, Gage brushed it off, but Race knew he was tight-beaming Logan at least once a day, which surely wasn't going down well with Saran, who, Race had to admit, gave whole new shades of meaning to the phrase "workaholic".

So, when Sadie Robb, a student from the ancient University of Oxford, England, and her friend Bethan Reva from Princeton, both on the dig as they worked for their degrees, quite literally stumbled over the next alien ruins, Race was highly relieved. True to his hopes, Gage became wrapped up in the find as it became clear that the large "installation" was not meant to be lived in, unlike the huge city with the temple. Other installations also came to light with the new deep underground scanners that Race had bought as a surprise present for Gage, and it was another student who mentioned that the ruins did resemble human ground-control stations for orbital vehicles, like satellites and so forth. Frenzied excitement had ensued, since nobody had any proof that the aliens had any ability for inter-stellar travel, or any extra-terrestrial activity, other than the fact that identical ruins had been found on dozens of worlds.

Soon, however, Gage had let the rest of the by now large archaeological team get on with it while he returned to his favourite occupation of excavating the temple in the city. Race had to admit he was happiest when Gage was there too. Entering the temple, Race always found that the colossal stone walls cut down on aggravating noise and seemed to produce a hushed serenity that soothed frayed Sentinel senses. His abilities and the dig's own safety equipment also reassured that the temple was safely solid, unlike some of the more outlying sites they'd found, which were precarious to say the least.

The revelatory bond had started out as horseplay. Race had learned within days of first claiming Gage that the younger man became so wrapped up in his beloved archaeology that time ceased to have any meaning. If left to himself, Gage would start some task and then ignore things like food and sleep. However, Race found that spirit animal guides again came in handy. Every so often, his leopard would appear, carrying the protesting jaguar-spotted margay in its mouth like a naughty kitten. The leopard would lower the small cat to the floor, pin it with one paw, then lave it with it's tongue as the smaller golden feline's squawks of complaint changed to purrs of delight. The message: take care of your Guide, was clearly understandable.

Going down into the temple, Race found Gage right where he'd expected, in the "altar" chamber, carefully cleaning the pictographs and symbols, his nose pressed to the marble work, utterly oblivious to his surroundings as he mumbled half-finished phrases to himself. Even before he'd been Bonded as Race's Guide, Gage had habitually showered and shaved daily, but Race's Sentinel senses easily detected the sensitive synapses from too little sleep and the empty belly and low electrolytes from skipping dinner and breakfast. Firmly taking Gage by the scruff of his shirt, he lifted the startled man upright, ignoring his protesting yelp that momentarily sounded so much like the indignant margay that Race grinned.

"Eat this, now." Race placed the plate with the freshly baked baguette, crammed with chicken, bacon and mayo, firmly in Gage's hands.

Rolling his eyes as Race stood in front of him with his arms folded in a no-nonsense manner, Gage perched himself against the flat-topped marble "altar" and insouciantly devoured the sandwich, chewing every bite well like a good little boy and wrinkling his nose at his Sentinel's stern expression. When the last crumb had been picked up by thumb and forefinger and placed in his mouth, the plate was pulled away and a cold can of iced tea thrust into his hand. Slowly, Gage chugged the refreshing liquid, then belched loudly as Race's reflexes sent the can lazily spinning to land upright on the plate the Sentinel had placed on the floor.

"Good Sentinel." He patronised teasingly.

Race snorted and crowded in, swiping at his head with one hand while the other took advantage of the diversion to start tickling uppity Guide ribs.

"Heeeyyy!"

Giggling like six year olds sneaking a live frog onto teacher's desk, they pushed and pulled at each other; eventually Gage backed up against the altar and went over backwards as Race kept trying to tickle him, batting away the hands. Race followed him, pinning him and nuzzling his throat; keen ears told him that no other humans were within a mile of their position, and no Sentinel turned down the opportunity of claiming his or her Guide. For a few minutes they batted at each other, pinching and tweaking, before Gage wiggled into a more comfy position so that they were nestled on their sides facing each other, despite there being little room. He grinned wryly, aware that in a room full of pristine, expansive marble, two fully-grown men were huddled together on the smallest surface in the place.

Race ran his hand up and down Gage's arm from shoulder to wrist, the other stroking Gage's hair – most Guides tended to have longer than average hair, since all Sentinels seemed to have the commonly favourite hobby of playing with it. Gage sighed and relaxed, leaning back slightly and laying his head back so Race could get at his throat, and instantly his Sentinel began to nuzzle him. They sank into the bond, the psychic energy lazily arcing between them as their hands moved languidly, tracing patterns over each other's bodies, mumbling odd endearments. Suddenly the Sentinel raised his head and snarled warning at the vague, gossamer thin coloured shapes that seemed to coalesce around them. Aggressively he pinned his Guide down and cast his head balefully left and right, rumbling angrily as the floating energy obediently drew back.

"Mine!" Race bit Gage's throat, worrying the skin until he knew he had marked his Guide. The rational man disappeared, replaced by a pure, undiluted and instinct-driven Sentinel determined to demonstrate his possession to the subtly encroaching shapes. He tugged sharply and impatiently at his Guide's clothing, ignoring the empath's startled attempts to soothe him as instinct replaced reason. The Guide was his, no one else's, and he would submit, now!

Gage gasped as his now naked body was pressed back against the cold marble, trying to calm Race's tumultuous thoughts and his sudden aggression, aware the instant that the man faded and was replaced by the primal Sentinel. Race buried his face in Gage's neck as the Guide stilled, knowing the instinct driven Sentinel needed submission. Gradually the shapes floating above them became solid enough for Gage's normal eyes to see, and he gasped anew as he realised over a dozen hovered over the bonding pair, but the realisation was vague as the primitive emotions of the Sentinel called to the primordial empath, and Gage felt reason slip away.

Sentinel and Guide met and fused on the psychic plane, orange and green twining around each other tighter and tighter, dimly hearing the triumphant screams of their spirit guides. Locked into the intense bond, oblivious to anything but the driving need to mutually claim and be claimed, first Race then Gage did not even notice as, like a diaphanous jelly-fish, one translucent form then another drifted down to envelope the head of each man. Race howled as undiluted psychic power poured along the link between Sentinel and Guide only to be met and fed by that coming the other way. Fleeting, barely formed images flashed in front of his mind's eye as the energy arced up, crackling and sparking, a whirling kaleidoscope of colour and white-hot sound that wrapped both of them in a cocoon of pulsing electric sensation. Race screamed, a long-drawn out shriek of triumph, as the pulsating energy allowed him to see and feel into the centre of every nucleus of every cell in his Guide's being. Gage's answering howl of ecstasy sounded a moment later, and it was as if both men had dissolved into each other, merged into one being, one soul. Race's eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped, his vision greying as he lay on the cusp of blacking out. The feather-light touch around his head disappeared, and once again the room was utterly empty, bar two nude men sprawled floppily on top of the altar, lying limply like discarded dishrags.

Finally, feeling as if his body was made of lead, Gage managed to roll to one side and slithered off the altar to lie panting on the now blessedly cool marble floor. His heart still drummed in his chest as he dragged air in and out of his lungs; his hair was plastered to his head and his entire body was soaked in sweat, heat still pouring off him. Race, in exactly the same condition, managed to lever himself into a sitting position and both men simply remained silently until the cool air chilled the rivulets of perspiration on their bodies that made it appear as if large buckets of water had been thrown over them.

"What…ah-ah…the hell…ah-ah…was that?" Race panted.

Gage's eyes widened and from his supine position he pointed one wobbly arm at a group of three symbols, predominantly displayed halfway up one wall. "Nuunnh…"

"Whaa…?" Race swallowed as he tried to make his mouth work properly.

Reaching up a hand to grip the edge of the marble top and using the altar block to lever himself upright, Gage took a moment to centre himself then shuffled around, carefully redressing himself in the clothing that had been ruthlessly discarded, ignoring the twinges of the marks and scratches inflicted by Race, whose own body bore similar damage to his Guide's from their bonding frenzy. Pointing again at the wall, he enunciated clearly to the stunned Sentinel, "I understand what the symbols mean. I saw it when they wrapped around our heads. They want us to understand!"

"Race, Race! Stay with me!"

Keegan came back to himself to find he was in their tent with Gage peering anxiously up at his face and shaking his arm lightly. "I'm okay, Gage."

The Guide stepped back, relaxing once he was assured that Race wasn't zoning. Their powerful bonding had obviously activated something, for when they'd emerged from the temple, they had found people converging from all over with tales of power spikes on every recording device they had. Gage's declaration that the aliens were at least empathic – possibly/probably telepathic - and appeared to have left some sort of psychic messengers behind had been what caused the media hysteria to erupt. All sorts of people began to try and get a look in at the dig, but Race, determined nobody was going to steal Gage's glory, had incautiously let the archaeologist's not-widely known Bonded Guide status slip out in the presence of journalists.

"Have they gone?" Demanded Gage caustically.

"Yes." Race answered, twitching in response to the irritation that still thrummed through his Guide. Taking a breath, he sent out soothing vibes, "Gage…"

"You said they wouldn't be a problem." Gage glared at him, in no mood to be calmed down. The blatant prejudice displayed by the delegation had made him furious.

Race snorted. "Gage, trust me, they are all going to find the universe a very uncomfortable place from now on." Trying again, he went on, "Gage, look…"

Gage's eyes widened as he twigged to Race's intended words. "NO WAY! Race, we can't leave now!" He began to pace, waving his arms about angrily. "We're in the middle of the biggest breakthrough we've had. The aliens left behind part of their consciousness and we can TALK to it-"

"It's murder."

Gage paused mid-rant. Anger, stubbornness, mulish resistance and finally resignation flitted across his face. Race was not in the slightest surprised. For all his love of his career and the "find of a lifetime", Gage knew that human life was always of more value than even the most bejewelled trinket. "What?"

"We have to go to Halfway Station. Someone there is trying to hire an assassin to kill Jim and Saran."

Gage laughed incredulously and shook his head. "Race, Jim's a Body Heir and Saran is the LEO Commissioner. They're untouchable! To try to put a hit out on either of them, never mind both, would be totally insane!"

"That's exactly the point, Gage." Race replied. "Obviously whoever is attempting this assassination is way too far gone for rationality to have any hope of prevailing! We need to find him/her/it or them and neutralise them before their insanity expands their horizons for them – like a plasma bomb in Halfway's Central Shopping Mall on Sale Friday?"

One thing about having a Guide who was an archaeologist was that the man knew how to pack and when not to waste time. Even as Race finished speaking, Gage was methodically yet speedily packing the essentials into his holdall, his mouth a thin line. Blair and Trey were now Bonded to Jim and Saran. The bond of Sentinel and Guide was for life. If the two Sentinels were killed, his friends would die…

The LEO Commissioner's personal air-skiff met Saran and Trey at the spaceport, gliding away smoothly and silently above the cityscape. Trey had never been to Federation, homeworld of the Intergalactic Federation of Planets, that glittering orb of colossal ziggurats, palaces, embassies, government buildings, luxurious hotels, unimaginable wealth and power, and he was glad it was night, so he did not embarrass Saran by gawking like some gauche hick.

The skiff touched down outside the private entrance to the LEO Commissioner's Palace, shielded from prying eyes in a secluded, walled garden of fountains and heady-scented flowers. The large door opened, throwing a rectangle of light towards them, and a tall man of Indian origin, wearing a turban and dressed in the most shiningly white clothing Trey had ever seen, inclined his head slightly. "Good evening, Sir."

"Hello, Singh." Saran nodded. "Trey Logan is my Guide. He will need entering onto all access codes, security monitors –"

Singh inclined his head again. "I took the liberty of making the necessary adjustments the day after yourself and Mr Logan bonded, Sir. I have prepared Mr Logan's suite, next to yours."

"You're a jewel, Singh." Saran said gratefully. The Vicereine had screamed like a fishwife when she discovered her son had "appropriated" her most valued employee.

With Singh slightly in the lead on the far left and Trey carefully walking a half-step behind his Sentinel on the far right, the three men walked across porphyry floors, between towering marble columns supporting a vast vaulted roof covered in brilliantly hued murals edged with scrollwork covered in beaten gold. Massive tapestries and oil paintings adorned walls, priceless antique couches and ornamental tables inset with lapis lazuli and jewels were everywhere, huge dragons of gold and jade from ancient Oriental dynasties stood guard at the foot of wide, sweeping staircases.

Entering his sumptuous personal suite of rooms, Saran nodded towards where a connecting door of solid, antique English oak, alone worth more than 5,000 galaks, separated his suite from Trey's. "We leave for my office at 0700 hours sharp. The computer will give you a wake-up call at six. Get some rest."

Nodding his head obediently, Trey silently walked through the connecting door and closed it carefully behind him, wishing he had the courage to turn the huge, black iron key and lock it. He walked through the opulent lounge to the bedchamber. An exquisite parquetry floor of rare wood peeked out from under huge, intricately woven rugs. A huge canopied bed took centre stage, swathed in real damask with genuine sun silk sheets, a fabric so delicate it lost its colour after two minute's exposure to direct sunlight. A large closet and two chests of drawers, all obviously antique, were along the wall, along with a huge bevelled mirror that had to be at least 800 years old. A partially open door led into the bathroom.

Trey sat the edge of the bed, which was pleasantly firm and sank only very slightly under his weight. Carefully he laid his hand on the bedspread and stroked the silk softly, concentrating on keeping his respiration and vital signs "calm". For all that van den Mikhail had insisted they both go back on the suppressant meds, Trey had no doubt the Sentinel was monitoring him from his suite next door. Collapsing into a blubbering heap would have Saran leaping through the door in full BP mode and Trey knew that: "You're my worst nightmare," as an explanation would not be well received. The slight glimmer of hope in the whole mess was Saran's insistence on going back on the meds and the fact that he was obviously accustomed to working long days – i.e., a workaholic. Grandfather had worked eighteen hours a day six days a week, even when he became rich enough to sit in his office doing nothing. Trey hastily shut off the painful memories of his relative, but the point was, if Saran followed a similar pattern, it would be weeks, months, maybe even a year or more, before Saran "got around" to initiating Full Bonding, something he obviously considered a low priority. Trey could more than happily live with that scenario.

Rising, he entered the bathroom, ignoring the sybaritic opulence of a place that looked as if it had been designed specifically to host a water-sports themed orgy, and quickly performed his evening ablutions. He looked at his own face in the mirror after he'd finished cleaning his teeth, the sadness sweeping over him again. Turning away from those hopeless eyes, he returned to the bedroom. Climbing into the bed, he felt something dig into his hip and pulled the object out of his pocket. It was small and glinted gold – his detective's shield, which he had been unable to bring himself to discard. Getting out again he carefully slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket, before climbing back into bed and making a mental note to wrap it in some nondescript cloth and secret it somewhere Saran would not bother to search. He had loved being a detective, even in Juvie, regardless of the often traumatic work. Even saving one child from a living hell was worth the anguish and nightmares. His time as a cop had been the one time in his entire life when he had been truly happy. He blinked furiously as the room suddenly blurred. He'd lost that now. Blowing out a breath, Trey resolutely closed his eyes, lecturing himself on focussing on the positive. He had his memories of the job – the successes, the good times, that he could recall – and he also had Blair and Gage, genuine friends, neither of whom would desert him.

Feeling his facial muscles all scrunch up, Saran consciously relaxed them as he realised that he always seemed to be frowning around Trey. As usual, he'd woken a few minutes before the wake-up call, and after performing his morning ablutions, his extended senses had registered no change in the vital signs of the man next door, meaning Trey had slept through the computer call. Upon entering the adjoining suite, Saran had initially thought that somehow his Guide had managed to leave unnoticed. Then he spotted him. Curled up in a hunched almost-but-not-quite foetal position, Trey lay on the very edge of a bed big enough to sleep six large elephants, still wearing his trousers and with his other clothing and shoes in arm's reach while he was initially hidden from view by dint of being buried under a disguising mound of covers. Saran's Sentinel sight saw with ease the tight lines around Logan's eyes and mouth that existed even in slumber, and his Guide was the classic portrait of someone taking measures to hide whilst still being able to run away pretty speedily. Feeling his forehead muscles start to draw in again, Saran fought down his irritation. Being considered "cold" and "unapproachable" had never bothered him – indeed, it was an asset that weeded out time-wasters and unimportant distracters – but Saran suddenly realised that he was rapidly becoming sick to death of Trey Logan looking at him as if he'd just ordered a light snack of babies and small children. Not even his worst enemies – and he had some very bad enemies – could accuse him of being even remotely a sadistic monster, so where did his own Guide come off treating him as if he were about as safe to be around as Attila the Hun with a headache?

"Logan…"

Under any other circumstances, the way Trey went from a softly snoring ball to vertically standing to attention in a manner to make a drill-sergeant smile would have been comical, especially in view of him rapidly blinking and darting quick, sidelong glances around the room in a clear: "Where am I and how the hell did I get here?" mental question. Saran was not amused; even confused out of his mind, Logan still looked like he expected to be dragged outside and shot any second.

Resisting the urge to say, "At ease," Saran explained coolly, "You slept through the wake-up call. Breakfast will be downstairs in ten minutes…okay?"

His eyes clearing, Trey nodded. "Yes."

Saran left the room and made his way downstairs, hearing the shower start as he went into the morning solar and took his seat, nodding to Martin to pour two cups of coffee and serve him his fruit. He picked up a couple of flimsies but found himself considering whether to initiate Full Bonding now. Maybe it would calm his distinctly skittish Guide down? Trey didn't cower or cringe or whine, but nevertheless he was obviously very nervous and unsettled…

Not one to worry or whittle, Saran came down on the side of his initial decision. If Trey really was nervous of him, then initiating Full Bonding would only scare him further – let Logan see that his hobbies did not include eating nails for breakfast or sacrificing infants under the full moon and he would settle down soon enough. Besides, as the sheaf of flimsies in his hand proved, Saran just didn't have the time…Now, what on earth was Primary Grade Mandarin Pottersham rambling on about? That man knew 24 different ways of saying absolutely nothing and used all of them every sentence he wrote…

A good contender for "world's fastest shower", Trey cursed himself for sleeping so deeply and was hurrying down the grandiose sweeping staircase with no regard for its splendour in less than five minutes. To his relief, Saran was deeply engrossed in a thick sheaf of important looking flimsies, and the inside of Trey's mouth that had suddenly gone drier than the Sahara at the thought of making "small talk" with the Commissioner of the LEO, for pity's sake! over breakfast abruptly started to crank out the saliva again in a flood that made Trey gulp. Seating himself, he nodded to the servant who stepped forward to pour coffee, and accepted a bowl of freshly diced fruit. Carefully watching Saran, he followed with two slices of toast with butter and shred-less marmalade, declining anything else even though his stomach still had a hollow echo. Assuming Saran bothered to have any of Trey's belongings shipped from his apartment on Halfway, he had a jar of his favourite thick-cut shredded marmalade and no way was he going to irritate his Sentinel by costing him more money in food. Making sure that Saran noticed him as little as possible for as long as possible was now the Logan objective.

At exactly seven o'clock, just as the Blood Sun seemed to rest on the tip of the spiked dome of the Basilica Gloriana like some ancient wretch's head impaled on a spear, Saran's heavily armoured personal air-skiff took off from the roof of the Commissioner's Palace over the city. Saran immediately buried himself in The Times, having earlier told Mirrim to take the "scenic" route and de-tint the windows so that Trey could see outside. Back in the mid-21st Century, a British newspaper had been unable to make the transition to palm-held ebooks, cyberspace publication and so forth, so seemed doomed to extinction. Instead, the paper's circulation had steadily risen until 70 of the globe read it. Humanity, whilst happy to have entire novels and all sorts of data on hand via the screen, took the view that breakfast was not really breakfast unless you could have a proper printed newspaper over which to pore leisurely, ready to catch charred breadstuff crumbs, dollops of marmalade, globs of porridge, splatters of milk-sodden cereal and hot beverage spillages. Wolfing down the eggs and bacon whilst hunched peering at the small calculator sized screen on the table top just didn't cut it, especially as they didn't like being hit with jam, or that sugar that missed the mug, or slops of hot coffee. Hard copy newspapers were also very good for hiding behind whilst really watching other people, as Saran did now, surreptitiously monitoring Trey peering out of the windows, seeing his Guide becoming relaxed for the first time since…well, in the entire time Saran had known the man.

All sorts of sci-fi movies had tried to picture the cities of the future and some in the late 20th Century had come almost presciently close. Indeed, at one time, there had been talk of renaming Federation Coruscant, in honour of a 20th Century sci-fi movie. Buildings of unimaginable size and increasingly opulent glory multiplied exponentially the closer you got to the Hub of the Capitol, where the LEO Commission and all the other really important buildings were. Long lines of air traffic criss-crossed the city endlessly, besides that on the ground, such a thing as a "lull" being unknown. The population of the Capitol was 102 billion residents, not counting daily commuters, tourists and all the other visitors. The traffic worked on the basis of cost. Ground cars, buses and the Underground were the cheapest. The higher up the "layers" of air-traffic lanes you wished to travel, the more it cost. One journey's travel two air lanes up from the ground cost about 60 galaks, not bad considering the average basic wage in the Federation of Planets was about 1200 galaks per week; to travel ten air-lanes up cost about 140, because the higher you went, the fewer the users, so the quicker the journey. This high in the air, the whole city was spread forth, like dozens of highly polished jewels laid out on a velvet cloth. Indeed, many of the richer planets had their embassies adorned with gems, golden roofs, marble, porphyry and so on. Trey swallowed…Grandfather's studied luxury seemed even more pretentious against this unconscious élan and glory…

As always, the skiff set them down in the Fire Courtyard, directly in front of the LEO Commission Palace. The entire courtyard, including the massive one hundred foot high statue of Justice in the central fountain, had been carefully inlaid with tiny tiles of polished nacre, or Mother of Pearl. Each morning as the Gold Sun rose from the south, it hit the courtyard at a certain time, turning the whole place into a blazing bowl of blinding, iridescent light that could be seen for ten miles in every direction, like fiery beacon spearing towards the heavens. Already there were dozens of tourist barges and coach-skiffs hovering overhead waiting for the spectacle.

The order that the "LEO Commissioner must land in the courtyard before Justice and walk into the building" with the rest of the plebeians had been laid down at the Commission's inception, the Powers That Be wanting to impress anew upon their appointee each day the awesome responsibility that was entailed in entering through that great colonnade past those soaring marble columns sheathed in solid gold. Glancing at his watch, Saran walked right past the wonders he and most of the Commission employees had stopped noticing years ago, into the high-domed rotunda of the lobby. Trusting Trey to keep up, Saran headed away from the main elevators where workers were already tossing a mental coin over the "shall we sardine or take the stairs?" options, towards a small, discreet alcove of turbo tubes. These tubes needed a retinal scan and a DNA scan and a voice activation code before they would even consider considering whether to open the doors. Saran stepped inside and paused expectantly for the computer to announce "counter-measures" against the unauthorised occupant, but the elevator began to rise in smooth silence, and Saran realised that Singh had been his usual super-efficient self. He made a mental note to give Singh yet another pay-rise – the Vicereine was still dreaming up ways to inveigle her most prized employee back to her and his mother had turned devious cunning into an art form.

They stepped out of the elevator into a corridor with a plush peach carpet where the pile was at least a foot deep. The walls were painted cream and adorned every few feet or so with what Trey easily recognised as Old Masters and priceless tapestries. Abruptly however, Saran came to a halt in front of him and raised his hand for silence, tilting his head in a very familiar gesture – a Sentinel using his senses. "This way."

Turning back on himself, Saran went left then left again, then sort of glided silently across the opening of a side corridor. Following him, Trey heard the noise and turning his head he glimpsed a large, luxuriously appointed reception area crammed with dyspeptic looking individuals clutching various flimsies, data chips or other paraphernalia. Obviously the front door to Saran's office, Trey realised as Saran opened the back door.

Marching across the entire back wall were graceful Palladian windows, framing like portraits a panoramic vista of the city's elite residences and stunningly beautiful parks and gardens. To one side of the huge room, a couple of steps led down in a spacious seating area where couches and a coffee table were arranged around a state of the art TV and sound system, and a fully stocked bar and bathroom/closet were also present. Dominating the room, directly opposite the inner door, was a huge desk that appeared to be wood until you saw that the desk top was a black glass computer screen. Walking over to it, Saran tapped lightly to the bottom left of the desk top's surface and a small square lit up red then green, a thin flat drawer extending out. From this drawer Saran took a large orange rectangular clip-on badge, which he held out to Trey. "As long as you have it on your person, the building's systems will recognise you as my Guide. I advise you strongly not to leave it in a men's room, café, kitchen, or anywhere else. When you're as high up as this level, the security system is designed to shoot first and ask questions while it's clearing the smear off the wall." Looking at his desk, he allowed himself a deep sigh. Data chips and flimsies were arranged in neat but large piles. "I've got about an hour before someone out there twigs that I've sneaked in the back way and starts pounding on the door, time to clear some of this waffle. Go and get yourself some coffee." Saran sat down, his mind already deep into his work.

Obediently, Trey slipped out, sneaked quickly past the waiting hordes and out into the main corridor, beginning to walk left. However, he had only gone a few yards when a "power dressed" woman with shoulder pads big enough to land helicopters on who had been walking past glanced at the orange badge clipped to his jacket lapel and did one of those slapstick comedy style double takes, her jaw almost bouncing off the floor. Trey scuttled past, but the human traffic following her all reacted the same way – one guy bounced off the wall and two others walked into each other; Trey quickly realised that the orange badge identified him as Saran's Guide to far more than the security system. Wheeling rapidly to his right, Trey hurried around the corner down a side corridor and practically dived into a men's room situated there, which was fortuitously deserted. Plucking the orange badge from his lapel, Trey shoved it into the inside pocket of his jacket and exited the room, continuing on instead of going back the way he came. No alarms sounded and nothing nasty zapped a hole in his chest, so apparently as long as the badge was on his body the security system didn't mind it not being visible. Rejoining another main corridor, Trey relaxed as the men and women hurrying to and fro paid him not so much as a glance.

Trey found a very upmarket vending machine and was just poised to feed it his galaks when harsh reality whapped him upside the head. For a moment he remained frozen, poised with the rectangular money held between his thumb and forefinger, then very precisely returned the money to his pocket, staring at the innocuous machine. He'd been paid just before Saran captured him, but he knew Halfway's Station Manager and Chief of Police would have rushed to stop his wages and pension so fast they'd have left scorch marks in Payroll's carpet. True, Trey had lived frugally, but most of his money had gone to the Underground Railroad and child protection groups, not some high-interest savings account. Assuming that Saran did bring his belongings to Federation, Trey had a few small bits he could sell for ready cash, but nothing major. Calculating rapidly, Trey estimated that if he pared his expenditure down to the barest subsistence level, he had enough money left to last him two Earth standard years maximum – as long as he didn't pay his renewal premiums for his insurances, or take his re-tests for driving and piloting.

A bitter expression flashed across Trey's face. This was just another thing that exposed the "fact" of empaths having the same equality possessed by every other citizen as pure fiction. Once scientists accepted that the younger a child was, the quicker, easier and better they learned, the education system had rapidly been re-organised. Formal schooling now began at one year of age, with languages being taught at 18 months and mathematics at two, alongside music, gymnastics and fine art to hone gross and fine motor skills. Unlike tempestuous teens, toddlers liked to learn and had no idea that they "should" or "should not" be able to do something. Children began to learn how to operate and maintain ground vehicles as soon as they were tall enough to reach the pedals and see through the windscreen, likewise with air skiffs and space vehicles, for the simple reason that a well-taught child was a far better driver/pilot than a nervous, anxious adult or arrogant, over-confident teenager. A person could take their licence exam for driving a ground vehicle at eleven, for air traffic at thirteen and space traffic at fifteen. Indeed, most schools and other educational institutions had "accelerated programmes" or scholarships sponsored by the military or business interests for drivers and pilots.

However every person had to take a re-qualifying exam, every seven years for ground vehicles, five years for air vehicles and three years for space vehicles. The re-tests were both physically and mentally rigorous, accompanied by a medical exam to boot, but were financially negligible. The 50 galak nominal fee charged was a drop in a bucket to even the lowest income family, but to someone who had no money at all, 50 galaks might well have been 5 million. Trey's Driving Licence, Air Pilot and Space Pilot Licences were all due for renewal over the next three years, which meant 150 galaks to be paid out before he'd even started on the other stuff.

The problem was the Sentinels. The view of empathic humans about themselves, that being an empath was not a beneficial thing to be, meant that most Sentinels' Guides were captured "wild empaths". The Sentinel therefore tended to develop a deep sense of insecurity born of the knowledge that their empath had to be coerced into the bond and also a paranoia that bred a nice little "What's wrong with me? Why doesn't he/she want me?" inferiority complex, all of which displayed themselves in a bullying "control-freak" attitude. Possessive Sentinels could, had and did "encourage" their Guides to spend what money and assets they had (assuming the Guide managed to keep his or her job in the first place), after which the said Guide discovered he she could not pay to re-qualify, so was dependent on the Sentinel-as-chauffer to travel any significant distance. Without money of his or her own to pay towards the Intergalactic Federation of Planet's compulsory Personal Life Insurance, Medical Care Contribution and Retirement Fund Contribution that every citizen had to have as a minimum, the Guide quickly found that he or she was completely dependent upon the Sentinel being "generous" enough to put them on their own "family" cover. The Sentinels actions filtered down to the unclaimed empaths, who went further underground, so the Sentinels searched more tenaciously for them and clung harder to any Guide an individual Sentinel caught, perpetuating the vicious cycle of mistrust all over again.

Suddenly aware that he had been standing motionless in front of the vending machine for several minutes, Trey turned away and blindly entered the nearest turbo elevator, pressing the bottom button randomly as a deep despondency overtook him. Apart from the 150 galak re-take fees, even assuming Saran would allow it, there was ground, air and space vehicle insurance, his private pension funds and medical cover on top of the mandatory PLI, MCC and RFC. Assuming he lived at the bare subsistence level and paid them all this time, his two-year breathing space had just been chopped off at the knees to about eight Earth months at the most. Trey's eyes were suddenly moist as a hot wave of shame swept over him; his humiliation would be complete when he was forced to ask Gage, Blair and Simon – his friends - for "loans" they all knew he would not be able to repay – and how the hell was he supposed to do that when, no doubt, his every conversation with them would be monitored by his Sentinel or theirs?

The soft hiss of the doors retracting caused him to step forward instinctively and he exited the turbo tube only to duck reflexively as he came within an inch of being decapitated by a small flying 'droid. Automatically sliding to one side, Trey's hand dropped smoothly down…to close around nothing but jacket cloth. The bitter taste of impotent anger filled his mouth once more as he was reminded yet again that his gun was back in his apartment on Halfway, along with his former career as a police officer.

Straightening up sharply and at that moment not particularly caring if he was brained by a heavy blunt object, Trey looked around him in amazement. It was artificial, but still a cavern. A huge cavern. He couldn't see the other side of it and the ceiling arced away so high above that you got a crick in you neck and your eyes watered as you looked up. It was filled with cramped row upon row of soaring stacks of what looked like book stacks, at least fifty feet high around which criss-crossed walkways, gantries and flights of stairs all over the place. Mini-robots of all shapes and sizes trundled along the crowd or zipped about like giant metal hornets, several dozen people weaving their way in and out of them, up steps, along walkways and around stacks in what, from Trey's vantage point, looked like an intricate dance.

Slowly descending the stairway to ground level, Trey saw a tall, brown haired woman who seemed to be in charge. "Uh, excuse me, what….?"

She took in his lack of identification. "How did you get down here?" She asked, not unkindly.

"Uh, well, Saran, I mean the Commissioner, he's back and he sent me to –"

Her face cleared as if by magic. "Thank goodness! We're desperate down here!" Taking the startled man by the arm, she led him back towards the workstations where several people sat. "Everyone treats the admin section like they're insignificant, yet without us the whole place would grind to a halt. We've been waiting weeks for someone to come and help out with the backlog of data storage."

"Uh, well…."

"Here you are." Patting a large pile of data chips and flimsies eerily reminiscent of the piles on Saran's desk, she smiled at him. "Start on these, Stack 3064 over there, Rows 455-457. I'm Adelaide Nelson, from the ANZAC Worlds as if my name wasn't enough of a hint, if you need anything just tell me." She handed him a small text pager, patted him on the arm, and hurried off calling to a young blond youth, "Not that one, Dean, yes, over there!"

Trey look down at the flimsies and the small round data chips, holding billions upon billions of bytes of information, then around him at the harried faces and rushing backwards and forwards of the staff. It would probably be hours before Saran surfaced from his office, and he could be back up in time to leave for Saran's private residence as long as he kept his eye on the clock. Doing something useful, even if it was only filing would also take his mind of his predicament. Carefully scooping up several flimsies, he walked along the narrow gaps between stacks towards his destination. "What is this place?"

Trey nearly dropped the flimsies in a messy heap when one of the passing 'bots responded unexpectedly. During the next fifteen minutes Trey learned that this was the Repository of the IFP. Basically, fraud and embezzlement had been a lot easier to undercover when the bad guy had had to use paper ledgers; with IT, a few keystrokes could "disappear" billions untraceably. Therefore every IFP computer system in the inhabited galaxies all had one thing in common – they recorded each keystroke made on them and downloaded copies of the operator's actions into the Repository. What made the job so rushed was that they did it in real time, there was no waiting until the end of the day back-up, during which time an enterprising crook could work his way through the firewalls and do some creative editing. So advanced were the programs used that the Repository system could tell when a different person was using a User ID than the allocated individual and flagged up discrepancies in the real time data it stored and the end-of-day re-indexing that was done.

Feeling battered by the lists of facts, figures and percentages rattled off by the little robot as it floated like a robotic swami in mid-air, Trey slumped as it finally flew off and concentrated firmly on filing the data chips, keeping his mouth shut.

"Secure files and off." Saran gave the order as he stood carefully up from his chair so his back didn't punish him for speedy movement; not that it should have in the first place – he was barely in forty-five, not even middle-aged like his mother or William Ellison…oops, whose birthday celebration he would have to attend in his capacity as LEO Commissioner. Ah, another fun evening done up like a giant comedy penguin, sipping champagne that would be flatly warm by the time he managed to escape this office to get there and being pigeonholed by some boring Mandarin, Senator, Speaker or Lesser/Associate House scion who would say absolutely nothing for an hour just because he or she wanted to go back and one-up their friends by being able to crow, "I was talking to Saran – the LEO Commissioner, yes, - he's such a darling, and he said…." Still, his mother and siblings would be there as well as his aunt, Matriarch Madhuri and his cousins. Her third son, Ahkef, was a similar age to himself and had a highly entertaining acerbic wit; Saran had spent many hours standing side by side with his cousin while Ahkef assassinated the characters of the noblesse whilst hiding his commentary behind a champagne flute. Saran wondered what his family's opinion would be of his Guide. At least there would be no animosity over his rank in the hierarchy of High House Syal. When his aunt the Matriarch had made him her Body Heir over her own children, Saran, already the Body Heir of his mother the Vicereine, had braced himself for the explosion, but his cousins had fallen upon him with expressions of gratitude, relief and heartfelt cries of "Thank god she lumbered you with the nightmare!" Nevertheless while not consciously cruel, they were a blunt spoken lot, especially the Vicereine, and the Matriarch had no time for timidity.

On the end of that thought, Saran's expression changing to one of concern as it suddenly dawned on him that he had sent Trey on a ten minute coffee run over five Earth hours ago. Cautiously he extended his senses to the reception area and surrounding corridors, tuning out the thumps, wheezes and whiffs emanating from the bodies scattered about, including the tenaciously still seated few bureaucrats who would have to be bombed out of his lobby. Nothing. The biological signatures that Saran had imprinted on his Sentinel radar back on Halfway were AWOL.

Decisively Saran exited his office by the side door his Guide had used, picturing Trey wandering hopelessly lost through the gargantuan edifice that was the LEO Commission Palace. It had happened, though amazingly infrequently for a building that was a thousand storeys high and contained 1,000,000 personnel. One guy hadn't turned up on the first day of his job in a senior position and sparked a five-day missing person hunt when his wife reported that he hadn't come home that night. He was found on the other side of the building on day six, asleep in one of the staff kitchens, having become hopelessly disoriented after getting lost on Level 62, not knowing how to get an outside line to call home, living off whatever he could swipe out of the fridges and using various of the building's gymnasium changing rooms for showers.

Once in the corridor, Saran cautiously "dialled up" his olfactory sense, catching the very faint but still present unique scent of Trey Logan's body. Walking slowly and alert to any sign that he was beginning to zone, Saran followed the invisible scent trail down one corridor, then into a men's room where it lingered in front of the washbasins for several minutes without going to the urinal or into a stall, before going back out again. Deciding not to try to decipher what his Guide was doing with or to himself in those few minutes, Saran obediently followed the scent trail out to the corridor and down the other way, carefully avoiding the other workers hurrying to and fro. None so much as glanced at him, which was exactly what Saran expected. Not only was he not wearing any "official" symbols of office but as an inter-galactically famous movie star had explained at a party, he was "out of context". The Law Enforcement and Order Commissioner was a man who travelled in high style with bodyguards and flunkies in armoured skiffs with screaming-siren police escorts and who was filmed/photographed by the news media behind his massive desk or attending some high society party. Remove all those trappings and you had just one more man in a suit amongst two dozen more identical to him walking down just another corridor.

He paused in front of a vending machine and took a surreptitious sniff. Yet again, the concentration of body odour indicated Trey had stood in front of the thing for several minutes, yet there was no accompanying after-scent of tea, coffee or any other of the beverages, meaning that he hadn't purchased anything. After completing his mysterious communion with the vending machine, Trey had suddenly swung sharply to the turbo tubes, and his scent chopped off abruptly before the doors of the one to the extreme left. Saran stepped inside and the doors shut, the elevator waiting with mindless patience as he decided where he wanted to go.

Leaning forward, Saran peered at the keypads. Though he had been on suppressant meds for years and infrequently used his Sentinel senses, the Vicereine had ensured that her Sentinel son had had the finest training any Sentinel could wish for. Keeping his sense of smell dialled up as a distraction against zoning, Saran dialled up his eyesight and saw, clearly delineated on the bottom-most pressure pad, a thumbprint. In a millionth of a millisecond, the eidetic memory the Vicereine had had all her children designed with compared the thumbprint now with the thumbprint in the personnel file that Saran had browsed through on Halfway while searching for Trey, and came up with: EXACT MATCH. Saran pressed the pad also, wondering what Trey wanted in the Repository. The tube dropped with a swift whoosh. Even though much of 20th century sci-fi technology – warp drives, jump gates, star gates, artificial wormholes, voice-activated home furnishings – was now sci-fact, there still a few things that had never been really achieved, like transporter beams and, incongruously, voice-activated elevators. The latter were simply too inefficient and the technology needed to make them capable of following the instruction of more than one voice at a time was simply too exorbitant to be practical.

A minute later, Saran stepped out onto the walkway and looked down to the floor level, spotting a familiar dark head immediately. Trey was in conversation with non other than Adelaide Nelson, whose innocuous job title of "Repository Administrator" gave no hint of the truly awesome power she wielded as Custodian of the Intergalactic Federation of Planet's sole store of very, very, very sensitive information about it's every citizen, up to and including the President him or herself. Her smile, however, was genuinely warm as she talked to the young man.

"Mesdame Nelson." Saran pitched his voice so as not to startle the pair, smiling to ease any awkwardness.

Adelaide turned an even bigger smile on him, her voice enthusiastic, "Commissioner, thank you for sending Trey. He's been a god-send, honestly...he's about the first clerk I've had whose got some initiative…"

Saran's face crinkled into an amused smile. "You put my Guide to work as a filing clerk?"

Her smile abruptly froze in place. "Guide…?"

"I-I- d-d-don't mind."

Both of them turned to look at Trey, who they had momentarily forgotten. Saran's dialled up senses caught the way the young man's heart gave a lurching beat as he repeated, "I d-d-don't mind, helping out, r-really."

Despite his self-lecture, Saran felt himself frown at Trey's softly stuttered words and his heightened senses promptly measured Logan's instant responses as his face went a distinctly chalky white and his knuckles clenched in a death grip on the flimsies in his hands. Saran was suddenly convinced that if Trey had had a cuddly toy or cushion he would have clutched it to his middle with both arms around it in a textbook self-protecting gesture. Suddenly wanting to ease Trey's fear, Saran made another instant decision, turning and cutting off Adelaide Nelson's apologies in mistaking the Commissioner's Guide – did she have to make Trey sound like a naughty puppy for pity's sake? – for the new filing clerk she had asked for several weeks ago…

"If Trey really has been a real help to you –" He began.

"Oh yes, truly Commissioner, he's done more to clear the backlog in one day than some of the temps I've been having have managed in a week." Adelaide shivered delicately. "It was that work experience girl we had in over the Easter holiday while she was waiting to go to university. Straight A student, nicest girl you could wish to meet…" Her smile changed to a grimace, "It wasn't until after she left we realised that she'd been filing things that started with "The" under "T"."

Trey would have about as much fun as a man with a migraine at a rock concert if all he had to do was sit there all day while Saran worked his way through the daily grind of being LEO Commissioner. "Then hire him as your new filing clerk." Saran "suggested", noting how Trey relaxed in the face of his apparent approval. "I know never to mess with the needs of the Repository."

Adelaide beamed. "Thank you, Commissioner. Do you mind, Trey?"

"Uh…no ma'am. I'd be happy to help." Trey's smile was equally blinding.

Saran filed away for future reference the fact that Trey had been surprised at Adelaide actually giving him the choice of whether he wanted to do the job. Trey was just as much a citizen of the Federation, with all the rights and protections thereof, regardless of being Saran's Guide – maybe even more so because of that – but at the moment, there were more pressing concerns. Saran's stomach had long since passed the stage of sarkily asking if he was on a radical new diet or had simply had his throat cut and was now just screaming Foo-ooo-oood! at him, and a quick sensory scan of Trey's electrolytes and blood sugar proved that the young man had ingested nothing since his bowl of fruit and two slices of toast at breakfast, not even coffee. "I'll bring him back, but right now we're going for a late lunch." Saran promised her.

Leading the way back to the turbo tube, Saran ordered his skiff to be ready on the launch pad when they arrived. Rumours and gossip spread through the Capitol like verbal dysentery, and the entire planet had doubtless known about his newly acquired Guide within ten minutes of Saran capturing him in that disused corridor on Halfway. Friends, enemies, the media, the curious and the ambitious would be circling like sharks in a blood frenzy, and Saran was not inclined to put himself or Trey on public display today, thank you very much. Rapidly discarding possibilities, Saran silently settled on Marriette's – the most exclusive restaurant in the Capitol. A meal cost the equivalent of a couple of annual salaries but "invisible" service, privacy and absolute discretion were guaranteed, and Saran was almost sure there was no truth in the rumour that the one time a waiter had been bribed to "leak" something Mariette had personally shot him to death in the kitchen and got rid of the body by dicing it up and serving it in various dishes the next day.

A quick vid call to the Maitre D' got them a table for two in the arboretum, which offered further panoramic vistas of the Capitol and was not visible to the hovering tourist skiffs that were kept at a firm distance from the eating elite – again, rumours persisted that Mariette had a couple of plasma-gun nests hidden in the shrubbery of the front colonnade to dispose of any of the hoi polloi that ventured too close.

White-gloved waiters and waitresses seemed to almost glide through the place as the Maitre D' personally escorted them to the table; Mariette himself only came forth when the President came to dine. The place was designed to look like a garden: large, solid wooden tables with hand-carved wooden chairs scattered artistically about on genuine Earth-quarried Italian marble flooring over a foot thick, in between restfully tinkling fountains and gloriously-coloured, headily scented flower bays, with real exotic birds trilling in the branches and brightly-hued fish swimming in the artificial streams.

Saran considered the menu carefully, which was long, exotic and had no prices listed anywhere. Despite his hunger, he usually had only a light salad and a glass of wine, but something told him that Trey, who had to be much hungrier from not swigging coffee between dealing with self-important politicians all morning, would eat nothing more than Saran himself did. He was the Body Heir of the Matriarch of High House Syal and the Vicereine of Olban and had more money than some solar systems. Hell, I own a couple of solar systems. It's time to splash out a little. "I'm hungry and I want meat." he mused deliberately aloud. "Maybe the potato skins to start, then a steak. What do you think?"

"That sounds okay." Trey said calmly. "Is the bison steak with feta cheese salad good?"

"Superb." Saran assured him as a waiter mysteriously appeared by their table. Mariette's staff were apparently psychically trained to know when the patrons were ready to order. He carried a wine list in his hand, but nothing so gauche as an e-pad. Mariette's staff could memorise an order for twenty people perfectly in two seconds flat. Gesturing away the wine list, Saran ordered for them, "Two deep fried potato skins appetizers, with bacon, cheddar cheese with beer parsley and garlic and a sour cream with chive dip, followed by a bison steak with feta cheese salad and a Scottish Angus steak with black pepper sauce, both done medium rare, and a bottle of '77 Chardonnay."

The waiter bowed and was gone, returning less than a minute later carrying reverentially the vintage, highly prized wine that was a snip at 20,000 galaks per glass. Saran went through the age-old tasting ritual then nodded as the waiter poured both a full glass and left the bottle. Saran kept up a light flow of chitchat whilst his analytical mind processed what he was learning about his reluctant Guide. As LEO Commissioner, Saran knew all aspects of his life were of great interest to many people, and he had been monitored by security and protection departments such as the Dark Angels, for one, practically since birth. It was a given that any Guide he acquired would instantly become the number one priority of every interested party. The President and his mother the Vicereine had probably had a dossier about Trey on their desks within an hour. Saran knew with certainty that Trey's police personnel file, full of the "blank" periods Saran himself had noted on Halfway, were quietly giving various "shadowy" people ulcers and sky-high blood pressure. Saran had sternly ordered that security agents make no personal contact with Trey himself, not wanting to antagonise the youth any more than necessary.

This luncheon was proving to be very, if unintentionally on Trey's part, enlightening. The Halfway Station Police Department's personnel file (so obviously rubber-stamped by some pen pusher who'd never checked a word of it, because it had more holes than a fishing net) listed him as him as son of working-class ore traders on the frontier worlds near the Rim of Known Space, or simply the "Rim" as it was known. He was an only child, despite his name meaning "three" or "third", but even now sixty years after his last major blockbuster, there were still people naming their children Trey Logan So-and-So after the former movie star, so the lack of older siblings was not a discrepancy.

According to the file, Trey had been orphaned at a very young age when his parents died within months of each other from Dust Lung, a disease similar to the ancient tuberculosis and emphysema that had killed a lot of men on Earth who mined coal, worked with asbestos, etc., right up until the late 21st Century. On the frontier worlds the line between rags and riches was often a precarious, highly unpredictable one prone to sudden shifts in unexpected directions; with safety equipment like asteroid breathers and ore filters often very expensive, the traders, miners, adventurers and so forth often preferred their money to be in the bank. With no living family, Trey had promptly been made a ward of one of the Charity Commissions and sent to a Trader's Charity School, where he lived a live of boring rectitude until he attained his BED – Basic Educational Diploma – with grades that were commendable if not spectacular. He had left the Free Frontier Worlds, travelled all the way through various systems with an amazing lack of anything interesting occurring, before arriving on Halfway Station where he had enrolled in the Police Cadet Academy and had been beavering away as a cop ever since. The End.

But…Trey was handling his current surroundings with a calm competence and lack of gawking awe that bespoke a more than passing acquaintance with the finer things in life. He showed no inexperienced hesitance or embarrassment in dealing with the Mariette's staff, did not twitch facial muscles agitatedly or pull at his clothing with his fingers, or fumble nervously with the cutlery. He had immediately known which of the glasses on the table was for water, wine and brandy and had immediately begun to use his cutlery from the outside in. Most telling, Trey had been reading the menu for himself with clear fluency, yet it was written in pure Earth French, one of the Earth Pure Tongues only taught in private schools – and the more exclusive private schools at that. Frontier World schools, especially those charity-based, had a chequered, nomadic and usually short life-span as they closed, moved, re-opened and re-branded themselves depending on the cash flow. Staff turnover was something like 98, "record-keeping" was patchy at best, and the curriculum focussed narrowly on teaching frontier-world orphaned children to survive in an inhospitable universe, one in which they were unlikely to ever need to speak real French.

Curiouser and curioser, to quote Alice, mused Saran as they finished off their starter. He kept up the light flow of chitchat and by the time they'd begun their main course he was glad he had not fully bonded with Trey so the empath could not sense his deep anger as Saran mentally added the idiotic bureaucrat in Halfway PD who'd rubber stamped Trey's personnel file to his "hit list". The last half hour of idle conversation had illuminated to Saran – and anyone else who bothered to read it – that Trey's file was virtually all fiction. The file – once again Saran blessed the eidetic memory his mother had designed him with – blandly dismissed Trey Logan's career choice in a single sentence: 'Detective Logan's friends Captain Simon Banks and Dr Gage Butler saw his potential for law enforcement and encouraged him to join the Police Academy.' Saran just managed to terminate a loud, derisive snort and instead speared a perfectly fried potato with more force than necessary. It was obvious that his Guide had a whole bushel of secrets and that was something that seriously worried Saran Van den Mikhail, who had faced down a DNA-shredder bomb waving Nyokrishian terrorist without a qualm.

Saran Van den Mikhail disliked mysteries and puzzles and secrets because the one thing they all had in common was a tendency to suddenly pop up years after the fact and bite you in the ass – or worse blow up in your face…

To be continued…

© 2002 C D Stewart